Red
by Snoweylily
Summary: A series of prompt-based one shots dealing with everything from spiders to teen!lock to milk to Beauty and the Beast to Sherlock getting his hair braided (Lestrade will never let him live it down). It ranges from parodies and crack!fics to angst and tradegy and will hopefully result in both tears and laughter in all those who read it. Any and all requests shall be written!
1. Sherlock is Deathly Afraid of Spiders

My 28th fanfic, my 1st published Sherlock one, with a twist.

This will be a series of **one shots based on prompts**.

 **So please send all and any ideas you have because I'm relying on you guys for requests!**

Rachel :)

* * *

 **Chapter 1: Sherlock is deathly afraid of spiders**

"Kill her".

John slowly put down his coat and glanced over at his flatmate, "... I'm sorry, what?"

Sherlock didn't avert his gaze, nor move his head from his hands as he repeated, "Kill. Her".

The doctor stared at him, "... Kill her? Kill who? Dammit Sherlock, I put up with the disembodied fingers in the pickle jar, I say nothing about the eyes floating in the sink, and I completely ignore the fact that we have a severed _head_ in our _fridge_... But that does _not_ mean that I will kill some innocent woman for you!"

"No, not a _woman_ , you idiot" He snapped, "The _spider_. Kill the spider!"

"... The spider?"

"Yes, the spider. What else?"

John frowned, "A spider? You want me to kill... A _spider?_ "

The younger Holmes sighed, and looked over at his companion for the first time, "I want you to kill a spider, Watson. It's not murder".

"Well, technically, it-"

"John!" He snapped, and if it was anybody else, John would swear they where whining, "I want you to kill the spider. And kill it now!"

"Well, where is it? I don't see any spider".

Sherlock gave an over-dramatic sigh, and pointed to the ceiling, "Over there in the top right-hand corner. She's huge, you can't miss her".

"How are you so sure it's a 'she'?" He muttered, dragging over a kitchen chair, but, of course, Sherlock heard him anyway.

"Really John? How can you _not_ tell? The last segment of her pedipalps is smaller, first of all, yet she is distinctly larger than her male counterpart. After that, there's the case of-"

"Alright, Sherlock, it's ok, I don't need to know" He interrupted, fetching a glass from the kitchen, "But why do I have to _kill_ it?"

"Her".

"What?"

"Her. The spider is female, John. Not an 'it'. We've already established this".

The retired soldier sighed, "Oh, of course. How could I forget?"

"I get the distinct impression that you're mocking me".

He smirked, "And I wonder why that is..."

* * *

Standing up on the chair, he quickly forgot his earlier question, and instead slowly raised the glass up to the ceiling, only to catch a web on the way there which sent the spider spinning around in circles.

And from behind him, came the most unmanly sound he had ever heard.

Pausing for a minute, he heard nothing more, and shook his head, dismissing it, before reaching up for the spider again, only for it to dangle down a few more inches from the ceiling.

And yet again there came the high-pitched cry from behind him.

Except this time, he couldn't ignore it.

* * *

John spun around to face the detective, "Did you just squeal?"

"Squeal? _Me?_ Never!" Sherlock shot back.

The doctor narrowed his eyes at him, "... You seriously just squealed, didn't you?"

"Nope".

"Sherlock".

"No way".

"Sherlock".

"Wasn't me".

"SHERLOCK".

The man in question actually jumped slightly, and sharply looked up at him.

* * *

And that's when John knew.

* * *

He stared at him, "... You're afraid of the spider".

"What?!" Sherlock exclaimed, "The world's finest consulting detective? Afraid? Of a _spider?!_ "

"You're the world's _only_ consulting detective. And all the signs are there, Holmes... Pale skin... Slightly sweating... Nervous fidgeting... Avoiding eye contact... You're scared".

"No I'm not".

"Do I need to call Mycroft?"

His eyes snapped up to the ex-soldiers, "... _You wouldn't dare_ ".

"Oh, believe me, I would".

"Just kill the spider, John" He growled, but the doctor refused to let the matter go, "No. If you're not scared of it, then prove it".

"I am _not_ scared!"

" _Then kill it yourself!_ " He yelled, tossing him the glass.

The detective glared, picking it up as he stood, "Fine. I _will_ ".

* * *

Walking over to corner, he reached up to catch it.

 _And, of course, he's tall enough to reach it WITHOUT the chair_ , John thought bitterly, watching as he slowly raised the glass closer to the spider, before suddenly freezing as it moved.

The 8-legged creature dangled down a bit further, and Sherlock hesitated, taking a small step backwards.

Then the spider slowly dropped down, and landed on his hand.

He froze.

* * *

"John?"

"Yea?"

"I'm scared".

* * *

Staring at him for a minute, the doctor frowned, "... Did you just admit to being afraid of something? The great Sherlock Holmes? Of an _insect_ , no less?"

"It's a bloody _arachnid_ and you know it!" He snapped, eyes still resolutely focused on the spider on his hand, "An _insect_ , honestly John, at least _try_ to act like you have a brain!"

The blonde huffed and folded his arms across his chest, "Well you can just go and catch it yourself with that attitude".

Silence.

"John?"

"Yes Sherlock?" He replied, and the detective swallowed thickly, "Get it off of me".

Sighing, the ex-soldier stepped forwards, managing to catch the tiny beast in his hands, before quickly walking over to the window and throwing her out.

Turning back around to face his flatmate, he found that he still hadn't moved an inch.

John smirked, "Definitely not scared of spiders, then?"

Sherlock glared, "Shut up".


	2. Sherlock Knows Lestrade's First Name

**Any requests?**

Rachel :)

* * *

 **Chapter 2: Sherlock knows full well what Lestrade's first name is**

He can't really remember how it happened.

One minute Sherlock was running down an alleyway, hot on the heels of his latest murderer, and the next, there was a bang, a stinging pain in his head, and the world was suddenly somewhat tilted.

He had been hauled up by a large man cursing his height, and rather awkwardly dragged back down the alley to a van that had arrived at the end of it, before being tossed inside unceremoniously and with a squeal of tires, the van had taken off.

He had dutifully counted the time, 54 minutes, until the vehicle had stopped as well as the direction, four lefts and three rights then straight on for the last few minutes, that they had headed in. Based on all that, as well as the smell of slightly salty seaweed he got whiff of when he'd been dragged out, he placed his new 'prison' south east of Baker Street, somewhere near... Westminster?

His theory was only further proven when his internal clock struck midnight the same time he heard the unmistakeable toll of Big Ben in the background.

That and the rumbling from underground, of course, signalling Westminster Station was near.

* * *

Knowing exactly where he was only made this overrated kidnapping all that more tiresome.

* * *

Four and a half days into his capture, however, Scarface, as Sherlock had taken to calling him, burst into the basement and flung his phone at him.

"That cop of yours won't stop calling. Get rid of him. _Now_ ".

He emphasised his frustration by pointing a gun at the detective's head.

Maintaining eye contact with his rather _dull_ captor, Sherlock swiped right and answered the phone, putting it on speakerphone when so ordered.

"Holmes".

" _Sherlock!_ Thank god, I've been trying to get a hold of you all _week!_ "

Scarface tightened his grip around the gun, his eyes narrowed as he _dared_ him to try something funny.

"Sherlock? You still there?"

He turned back to the phone, his mind working overtime as a plot slowly formed.

"Yes, I'm still here".

"Are you alright?" Lestrade asked again, and he swallowed, "Yes, I'm quite alright... _Greg_ ".

Silence.

"... Good" He finally replied, "That's... That's good. Where are you right now? I checked the flat yesterday but Mrs Hudson said you were gone".

The gun was suddenly pressed into his forehead.

"I'm... shopping" Sherlock said, "Down at the market. Now that _John's_ at that medical conference, I have to get it myself. _John_ really was a lot better than me at that. At shopping. But you know _John_ , always the crowd pleaser".

"... How is he, by the way? John?" Lestrade asked, "Where was that doctor thing on again?"

He silently let out a relived breath as he realised the Inspector had copped onto his antics.

"Spain" Holmes replied easily, "Down the south east, I believe. About an hour's drive from his hotel. A lovely sea side town, apparently, and plenty of war museums to keep him entertained".

"Lucky sod" He replied, "Will you be home by tonight? I have a few cases I could do with your opinion on".

His lips twitched into a wry smirk, "You need my _help_ , you mean?"

"... Yea, fine, I need your help, whatever" Lestrade admitted begrudgingly, "So? Is that a yes?"

The barrel of the gun pressed further into Sherlock's head as warning, "Ah... No. No, I... I can't, actually. I'm staying at Mycroft's for a few days. Something about the Prime Minister needing advice on parliament, you know how it is".

"... Yea. Yea, I do" He finally replied, "Well, I'll let you get back to your... shopping... And call me when you're back, alright?"

"Of course, _Greg_ " I replied smoothly, "Goodbye".

"See you, Holmes..."

* * *

 _Well that was embarrassingly easy_ , Sherlock mused as he heard doors being kicked open and "Police, freeze!" being yelled from the ground floor above him.

He did a quick calculation in his head.

It had been approximately 2 hours and 49 minutes since he had spoken to DI Lestrade.

He was getting sloppy.

* * *

"Police! Put your hands where I can see them!"

He quickly raised an arm against the blinding light that was abruptly shone in his face.

"Well it's about time you showed up, Inspector, I was beginning to lose faith in your, albeit minimal, detective skills".

Then, just as suddenly, the torch was gone as the basement's dim lamp was switched on, and he was staring up into the worried face of Greg Lestrade.

"Sherlock Holmes you crazy son of a bitch".

"I'm going to take that as a complement" He shot back, blinking rapidly to adjust his eyes to the new light, "And, believe me, I would get up only..."

He shook his left hand and the handcuffs tying him to the leaky radiator rattled.

Lestrade holstered his gun and crouched down to get a better look at them.

"And here I was thinking you could easily escape a set of these".

"Usually, yes" He agreed, "Not, however, with a broken wrist... The swelling makes it rather difficult to slide the cuff off".

And now that he was at eye level, the Inspector could clearly see that the fractured arm wasn't the detective's only injury.

He surveyed the black eye and broken nose carefully, "... How long have you been here for?"

"Here in the basement? Or with Scarface in general?"

"Scarface? Who the hell is- Actually. You know what? You can save all that for the debriefing. Let's just focus on getting you out of here, alright?"

Sherlock snorted, "Well that _was_ the plan of you storming the place".

"Don't be a smartass" He warned, and from behind them, they heard a loud scoff.

"Oh please, you're telling the _freak_ to reign in his _sarcasm?_ You'd have better luck finding Waldo".

He grinned and let his head roll to the side to face the spiteful woman, "Ah, Donavon, it's been _far_ too long".

"Not long enough, I'm afraid" She replied just as coldly, though the slight, _worried_ , frown marred her cool nonchalance.

"Go get paramedics" Lestrade ordered, finally managing to snap open the handcuffs, "We'll meet them upstairs".

* * *

It was much, _much,_ later as the Inspector wrapped up all arrests and send Sherlock's kidnappers away in patrol cars, that he had a chance to properly talk to the man himself.

He found the detective sitting in the back of an ambulance, his eyes closed in exhaustion, and for a split second, he had to stop and prevent himself from running over there and hugging the clearly pained detective.

Sherlock looked _horrible_.

Leaning against the side wall, he had stitches running along his hairline and cheek, and there was thick tape holding his nose in place. There were dark rings under his eyes, and even darker bruises marring his arms and chest, the latter too heavily bandaged to make much of, and his left arm in a sling.

* * *

 _Why the hell hadn't they gotten there quicker?!_

* * *

"Stop it".

Lestrade looked up, surprised, only to find one piercingly blue eye open and glaring right back at him.

"... Stop what?"

Sherlock scowled, " _Thinking_ ".

To anyone else, they would have scoffed at the arrogant remark, but to Lestrade, who had known the man far far longer than anybody else on his team, he knew exactly what he meant.

 _Don't wonder about the 'buts' and 'what ifs'._

"It took a while to convince the Superintendent that I wasn't imagining things, and that you were, in fact, in trouble".

 _I'm sorry I couldn't get here any sooner._

"I thought it was rather too obvious, the hints I gave you. Honestly, I practically named every landmark in a 10 mile radius around us".

 _You got here as soon as you could. It's alright._

Lestrade smiled, knowing that for now, they were okay.

"I know. Everything from the River Thames to Churchill's War Rooms to 10 Downing Street. Everything practically _screamed_ Westminster, and then you not-so-subtly demanded me to ask about John".

"Ah, yes, well, I had to find a way of giving you directions. And, speaking of John" Sherlock frowned, fishing out his mobile that one of the constables had found while raiding the warehouse, "It's just gone seven. He should be back from that conference in Oxford any minute now".

"Don't you mean _Spain?_ " Lestrade teased, "Honestly, what sort of _moron_ would think that they'd send a local medical center _GP_ to _Spain_ of all places for a _medical conference?!_ "

"Well I do keep telling you that the majority of the human species are idiots".

"And don't I know it" He sighed, taking a seat next to the man as he closed his eyes once more, the flashing blue and red sirens casting shadows on his face.

* * *

"Sherlock?"

He hummed in response.

Lestrade smiled, one last issue on his mind.

"What's my first name?"

The detective frowned, eyes still shut, " _Your first name?!_ Now why would I go and save a piece of useless information like that?"

His smile widened into a grin.

"Oh, no reason" He replied, his heart warmed to the core, "Just wondering, that's all".


	3. Sherlock Brings Rosie to a Crime Scene

**Requested by: Raintag**

None sure if it's exactly what you wanted, but I hope you enjoy all the same!

Rachel :)

* * *

 **Chapter 3: Sherlock Brings Rosie to a Crime Scene**

"Out of depth as usual, Lestrade?"

The Inspector sighed and straightened up, turning to face the detective, "Just tell me what you know, Sherlock, I'm not able to deal with-"

He abruptly stopped.

They stared at each other.

Sherlock shifted from one foot to the other, "What?"

"... Is that Rosie?"

He tightened his grip on the brightly-dressed toddler at his hip, pulling her even closer to his chest.

"Yes".

Lestrade pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath, "... Do you honestly believe that bringing a _child_ to a _crime scene_ is even remotely acceptable?!"

"Well it was either that or leave her at home alone" He shot back, "And contrary to popular belief, I am _not_ actually that irresponsible".

"That's a first" Donovan muttered, and he turned his glare to her, "Yes, Sergeant, it is. Much like how you spent the full night at Anderson's yesterday. Finally being upgraded to _more_ than just his bit on the side?"

"Sod off, freak!" She snarled, and he smirked, "Oh, so it _wasn't_ intentional... The wife gone away for the weekend, I presume? And you had just that little bit too much to drink, so you literally _couldn't_ leave. He didn't offer, you had to stay... That's got to hurt".

"Yea, as will your face when I fucking punch you in the-"

" _Language!_ " He snapped, left hand going up to cover Rosie's ears, despite the fact she was already half asleep.

Donovan stared at him in disbelief, before turning to Lestrade, "Is he for _real?!_ "

"Just... go back to getting witness statements" He ordered, sighing, "And Sherlock... call a babysitter next time, alright?"

"I might as well just send her to Kindergarten!" He exclaimed, "Do you honestly believe I would let her anywhere near those idiotic cartoonish books? Or, god forbid, they start singing nursery rhymes to her! What utter nonsense, Graham!"

The Inspector didn't bother to correct him, though he did hear the snide remark from Anderson being thrown in, "If he can't even remember one simple name, then why the hell is he being trusted with a kid?"

"It's still not ethical, Sherlock" He replied instead, "What do you think John would say if he knew you brought her here? To a _crime scene?_ And, actually, speaking of John, where he is?"

"Late night at the clinic" Holmes replied, "And I personally believe he would be very _proud_ of his daughter learning about murder at such a young age".

A snort from behind them, "I don't".

"Yes, well, no one asked for your opinion Anderson, you ignoramus!" He snapped, before quickly turning to look down at Rosie, "That means idiot. You should learn that, I use it quite a lot".

Lestrade huffed in exasperation, before lifting up the yellow police tape, "Just... come on, already, before I send you home".

He gracefully ducked under the tape, despite the child in his arms, "And let a murderer go free? Not likely, George".

* * *

The bright police lights did little to brighten the dark evening, and did even less to reveal the features of the dead woman lying face down in the middle of the alleyway.

Anderson was leaning over the body, but quickly stepped back when Sherlock arrived.

"Freak".

"Ignoramus" He shot back, before turning once more back to Rosie, "See? Told you".

She giggled, and nodded her head, her father's blue eyes sparkling with mischief.

He smirked and turned back to the forensic scientist, "Even a _toddler_ agrees".

He scowled and opened his mouth to retaliate, but Lestrade quickly stepped in to prevent world war three from happening.

"What do you think, Sherlock?"

* * *

The younger man quickly crouched down next to the dead woman, his movements still just as fluid and graceful as ever despite the three-year-old on his hip, much to the disappointment and envy of the officers surrounding the crime scene.

* * *

"No wedding band... But she has tan lines... Expensive coat but cheap shoes... And mud splashed along the back of her tights, despite it being a dry night..."

He glanced down at Rosie, "What do you think Watson?"

From behind them, Anderson scoffed and rolled his eyes.

The toddler smiled sweetly up at him, and tugged at her brightly coloured coat, "Pink!"

"Yes, that is pink" He replied warmly, "I was, however, asking you about... about..."

He suddenly turned back to the body, "... A study in pink".

Lestrade frowned, taking a step forwards, "Sherlock?"

"A study in pink" He repeated, "Yes... It's similar, _very_ similar in fact... The same situation, the same unhappily married life, the same adultery..."

He looked down at the still-smiling toddler.

"You, Rosie, are a _genius_. I knew there was a reason I was keeping you around".

Anderson baulked, "She's just a _baby!_ "

Sherlock abruptly stood up, "She's a highly-functioning toddler, do your research".

Lestrade shook his head, wondering for the umpteenth time in his life _why do I keep that sociopath around?!_

* * *

"I know who the murderer is".

* * *

 _Oh yea. That's why._

The Inspector stared at him, "... Well?"

" _Well_ " He drawled, "Isn't it rather obvious?"

"To you, maybe, but not to the rest of us".

Sherlock frowned, "Oh, yes, I forgot, you're all idiots".

Turning to Rosie, he whispered conspiringly, "Promise me that you'll never turn out like any of them".

" _Holmes!_ "

"Look at the body, Lestrade!" He exclaimed, "The way it's positioned, the blunt force trauma to the back of the skull, obviously done in the heat of the moment. And where's her wedding ring?"

"Her what?"

"Her ring!" He ranted, "She has a paler stretch of skin where the ring was, and based on the slight bruising on her finger it's obvious that it was taken off recently, and with quite a lot of force too".

"So?"

"So how can you not see it?!" He all-but-yelled, glaring at them viciously, "How the _hell_ did _any_ of you _ever_ become _detectives?!_ It is _literally_ staring you _right in the face!_ Good _god_ , Lestrade, how could _any_ one person be so _stupid!_ So _idiotic_ , so- so- so-"

"Papa?"

He quickly turned to the child in his arms, face gentle and inviting, voice calm and warm, "Yes honeybee?"

The police force all reeled back in shock from the sudden change in temperament.

Rosie wiggled uncomfortably in his arms, "Need potty".

He gave a curt nod, before turning back to Lestrade, and paused.

"... I shall continue this verbal lashing of your own absurdity and senselessness, and then once again save the day by revealing the bloody _obvious_ culprit... after we've gone to the potty".

And with a sudden turn on the spot and the billowing out of his trademark Belstaff coat, they were gone.

* * *

It took an embarrassingly long time for anyone to notice.

"Hang on" Donovan said, suddenly looking up with a confused frown on her face.

She turned to Lestrade, "... Did she just call him Papa?"


	4. Sherlock the Wedding Crasher

**Chapter 4: Sherlock the Wedding Crasher**

John took a deep breath as he fixed his bowtie and locked eyes with his own gaze in the mirror.

Today was the day.

He was getting married.

He was getting _married_.

He tried to put on a smile, tried to lighten his heart, tried to at least pretend that he was happy.

Because, really, he should have been.

Mary was funny and intelligent and beautiful and they'd been going out together for just over two years now and this was meant to be the happiest day of his life...

Except it wasn't.

* * *

Because Sherlock was dead and he didn't have a best man.

* * *

John quickly closed his eyes to fight back the tears.

 _This was so stupid!_

Sherlock had been gone for three years already, _of course_ he wasn't going to be here, _of cours_ e he wasn't going to be his best man, and _of course_ he was happy that Mike agreed to stand in but-

 _No_.

He shook himself out of it, and turned back to the mirror, reciting the mantra that he had long since drilled into himself.

"I believe in Sherlock Holmes".

It may be stupid, it may be pointless, but it was true.

And if he could believe in a dead man for three years, he could believe in himself for three minutes.

* * *

He stands up straighter and smiles crookedly at Mary as she arrives next to him at the altar, and she smiles softly back.

Reaching forwards, he lifts up the veil covering her face, and she takes hold of his hand as they both turn as one to face the priest.

"Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today-"

John zoned him out as the usual speech began, a speech that he himself could probably repeat just from watching trashy telly. There's a gentle tug on his hand and he subtly glanced across at Mary as she gives him a knowing look to pay _attention_.

"-if these two should not be wed, speak now or forever hold your peace" the Priest finishes, and John can't help but give a silent sigh at the pointless line.

 _Honestly, it's not like anyone ever actually says-_

*BUZZZZZZ*

His thoughts were abruptly cut off by the numerous buzzing and beeping from all over the room, and everyone frowned, pulling out their respectable phones as John's heart froze _because there was only one person he ever knew that could do that._ With trembling hands, he fishes out his own phone from his suit pocket.

* * *

 **I object**

 **-SH**

* * *

He stilled, palms suddenly sweating, breath suddenly too short, and brain working overtime because-

 _It can't be._

John quickly spins around to face their guests and locks eyes with Lestrade, who's looking just as pale as he is, and then with Molly, who's- who's- who's _smiling?!_ before his gaze drifts back, over his confused family, over his shocked friends, over the bewildered guests, until-

* * *

Sherlock was leaning sideways against the open doors, smirking, arms folded across his chest, and a phone clearly visible in his right hand.

* * *

His face must say it all because suddenly everyone else is turning to follow his gaze. There's loud gasps and wide eyes and one woman down back actually faints but all this does is let John know that _he's not imagining things_.

" _Sherlock_ ".

His voice was barely a whisper, but it carried loudly across the now deadly silent room.

The man merely raised an eyebrow at him, "No invite, John? I'm insulted".

He takes one step forwards and then another and another and suddenly he's running running _running_ and _grabbing_ onto his saviour because that's what Sherlock _is_ that's what he's _always been_ and this time John actually does realise that he's left his walking stick behind but it doesn't matter of course it doesn't matter because _Sherlock_ is holding onto him just as tightly _Sherlock_ who is now alive _Sherlock_ who was dead _Sherlock_ who-

* * *

Sherlock who spent the last three years pretending to be dead.

* * *

A split second later, he had yanked himself back and swung a mean right hook that completely caught the genius off guard.

Sherlock reeled back, hands quickly coming up only to find a bloody lip.

He frowned, actually _daring_ to look confused, "John, what-"

"Don't you 'John, what-' me _Sherlock Holmes_ " He growled, stalking forwards to grab his collar, "Where the _fuck_ were you? What happened?! Why were you- you- you were _dead_ , Sherlock! _I saw you die!_ How- What- _Why_ did you- you-"

"Perhaps this isn't the place to explain myself" He interrupted quietly, and John was suddenly aware of everyone staring at him.

 _And of Mary_.

"Oh god. Mary" He said, abruptly letting go of the man's shirt and took a step back, turning to face his bride only for Sherlock to grab his arm and spin him back around, "No".

"No? What do you mean no? It's my wedding day!"

"No it isn't. Didn't you get my text? I objected" He replied, "That alone should be reason enough for you _not_ to marry her... Oh, and she's also an assassin by the way".

John stared at him in disbelief, "An- An assassin? _Mary?!_ What are you even talking about? _Of course_ she's not a bloody assassin!"

He turned around once more, to face his future wife, to get her to confirm it, to get her to say 'I love you', to get her to-

Mary was pointing a gun at his head.

She smiled coldly, "Sorry Johnny, but I'm afraid there won't be a honeymoon".

* * *

John stood there in shock, trying to process it all.

Sherlock was alive.

Mary was an assassin.

And he was suddenly and undeniably _completely_ _out of his depth._

* * *

Mary glanced over at Sherlock, "You took your time. Word has it that you've been in London for over two weeks now".

"What can I say?" He replied coolly, "I just love making an entrance".

She smiled and slowly began walking down the aisle, gun still focused on a nervously sweating John.

"Well, I do hate to rush things, but the whole point of this was to kill you so... never put off until tomorrow what you can do today?"

"Viva le vida" He agreed, slowly but surely moving to stand in front of John, his hands raised in an act of surrender, "But Moriarty always did love having an audience".

John sharply turned to him, " _Moriarty?!_ "

"Who do you think she works for?" He replied, keeping his eyes on the woman standing in front of him, "Or, rather, _worked_ for".

"Past tense, Sherlock? I think that you'll find yourself mistaken".

"Impossible" He replied, as sure as ever, "I put the bullet through his brain myself".

The rest of the audience gasped, startled, and John, Molly, and Lestrade all paled dangerously as they realised he wasn't bluffing.

Mary swallowed, suddenly unsure, "I've got backup".

"No, you don't" He replied, subtly taking a step closer, "Why do you think I waited two weeks before showing up? I needed to find time to get rid of them somehow".

She quickly reached up to her ear and pressed at the listening device that was hidden there.

She only got static in response.

Decidedly nervous, she shifted from one foot to the other, "I can still kill you. I'm the only one here that's armed".

"No, you're not" came a voice from behind her, and everyone jumped and spun around as Lestrade suddenly stood up, pointing his service weapon at her with confident hands, "I've already lost that crazy son of a bitch once before. I don't particularly fancy losing him again".

She paused, considering her options, and her gaze drifted back to John as she hesitated.

But that split second was all that Sherlock needed.

* * *

Lunging forwards, he grabbed her wrist and bent it back painfully, not even flinching when the gun went off, resulting in screams from everyone in the room and Lestrade cursing and running forwards. Sherlock twisted her arm until she dropped the gun, struggling to get her to the floor. But he had the height benefit, and managed to use it to his advantage, and less than a minute later, she was lying face down on the carpeted church, her face pressed into the ground and her arms held behind her back. Lestrade wasted no time in taking over from the detective, handcuffs out as he listed her rights.

* * *

Stepping back, Sherlock turned to John, panting slightly, only to find the ex-soldier staring right back at him, eyes wide.

"John-"

"No" He interrupted, "No, just... just give me a minute".

"... If it'd help-"

"You just rugby tackled my contract killer fiancé, Sherlock. _I need a goddamn_ _minute_ ".

The genius quickly shut his mouth and hovered awkwardly as Lestrade hauled the blushing bride to her feet and the rest of the audience broke out in loud whispers.

John stared resolutely at the floor for a minute, before slowly looking up, taking in the man still standing in front of him.

The man who was his best friend.

The man who still _is_ his best friend.

He took in the ill-fitting suit, clearly something he'd got last minute just to be allowed into the wedding, and noticed how much thinner he had gotten.

And for Sherlock, that was a pretty bloody difficult thing to do.

He looked up at the man's face, the heavy bags under his eyes, the seemingly permanent frown marring his forehead, and the faint scars that John had never seen before disfiguring his right cheek and drifting down past his jawline to disappear under his shirt's collar.

* * *

A shirt collar that was spattered with blood.

* * *

John frowned, staring at the red stain that was slowly emerging from under his suit jacket, coming from... his shoulder?

His frown only deepened as he noticed how stiffly Sherlock was holding himself, tense, obviously, from pain.

And then he caught sight of the gun lying a few feet away from the detective.

"... You got shot".

He got a small nod in reply.

"You... You... She _shot_ you".

Sherlock remained silent, his piercing blue eyes studying him carefully.

"I don't... I never guessed that- that- that-"

"She was planning to murder you?" He finished, "And that's why you're the doctor and I'm the detective".

And despite it all, John couldn't help but laugh at the absurdity of the situation.

"You know... I was hoping you'd show up" He admitted, "I mean, I wished that you'd come back to live every day, but... today... It just hit me stronger than usually".

The younger man gave a small smile, "I know. I heard".

John stared at him, and couldn't help but smile back, "I believe in Sherlock Holmes".

The genius opened his mouth again, to say something, to say _anything_ , but was cut off as Lestrade jogged back in and turned to face him, "I've got a patrol car bringing her to the station, and an ambulance has been called. Is everyone else alright?"

"Yes" came the quiet response, eyes still locked with John's, "And you can cancel that ambulance... I've got my own doctor back".


	5. Smokers and Bulimics

**Any requests?**

Rachel :)

* * *

 **Chapter 5: Smokers and Bulimics**

The brown-eyed girl burst into the bathroom in tears.

Collapsing back against the door, she quickly brought a hand up to muffle her sobs, taking a few precious moments to try and compose herself.

He had commented on her weight again.

She was never good enough for him.

 _You're not pretty enough. You're not fit enough. You're not_ _ **thin**_ _enough._

She angrily scrubbed at the tears running down her face as she straightened up, knowing there was only one thing for it.

Cautiously walking further into the bathroom, chosen specifically for it's small size and inconvenient placement on the college campus, she bent down and looked underneath the stall doors.

She knew it was rather pointless, as no one ever used this bathroom anyway, but she still got a small sense of relief when she saw no feet in the three silent stalls.

Swallowing thickly against the lump steadily rerising in her throat, she shoved away those _pointless traitorous stupid_ emotions and entered the middle stall, locking the door behind her just in case.

It wasn't like she didn't deserve this, after all.

He was right.

He was always right.

She _wasn't_ pretty enough. She _wasn't_ fit enough. And, more importantly, _she wasn't thin enough._

Taking a deep breath, she knelt down and reached up to tie back her hair.

Leaning over the toilet, she grimaced, her hand already coming up to her mouth.

She always hated this part.

* * *

The blue-eyed man frowned as he heard the unmistakable sound of _gagging_ coming from the next stall over.

He had heard the woman come in a few minutes ago, and it most definitely _was_ a woman as this was the female bathroom after all, and she had made the distinctive noise of someone crying.

That alone hadn't even caused him to blink, people were always dramatic and over-emotional, and he had merely taken another long drag of his cigarette, before blowing out the smoke in a perfect ring-like shape.

What had piqued his interest, was the woman checking the stalls.

He hadn't gotten caught, he wasn't stupid enough for that, and even now he sat on the toilet lid with his knees drawn up to his chest, completely invisible to anyone looking under the door for feet.

And now, there was this little... _development_.

He paused, tilting his head to the side as he heard the woman finally throw up.

He wrinkled his nose.

Now what was she doing that for?

She wasn't sick, if she was going to vomit she would have ran straight for the toilet, not paused to check if she was alone or not first. And by checking if she was alone, meant she didn't want anyone knowing what she was doing.

Which could really only lead to one, painfully human, explanation.

Slowly unfurling long legs until they rested on the pale tiles below, he slid back the lock and stuck his head around the stall door.

* * *

"... Hello?"

She froze.

She hadn't heard anyone come in.

How hadn't she heard the door opening?!

"I... I'll be out in a minute".

She cursed herself for the audible tremor in her voice.

"Are you... okay?"

And- hang on, was that- was that a _man's_ voice?!

She slowly stood up, turning to face the stall door but refusing to open it, "...Yea... Yea, I'm fine".

Silence.

The woman frowned.

Had she... Was she just imagining things?

Shaking her head, she wiped the back of her mouth, flushed the toilet, and then sat down on the closed lid.

 _God,_ she felt exhausted.

* * *

"Liar".

* * *

Startled, the woman jumped, head snapping up only to find-

There was a man staring back down at her.

 _Literally_ , staring _down_ at her.

He must have been standing on something on the next stall over, as he easily leant over their shared partition, his head, a mess of dark curls, was resting on his right arm, elbow bent and propped up on the dividing wall, and his left hand was holding a cigarette, one, which, even as she stared, he took a careless drag from, seeming completely unperturbed as he gazed down at her with glazed icy blue eyes.

Yet despite all this, the only think that came to mind was-

"... This is the woman's bathroom".

He merely blinked in response, "So it is".

"What are you doing in here?"

He held up the cigarette, "This bathroom's fire alarm doesn't work. All the rest of them do. It's the only place in the building that I can smoke without getting caught".

She frowned, "Couldn't you go outside? You're allowed to smoke on the sorts field".

He made a face, "God no. I prefer as little interaction as possible with those hyped up over zealous meat slabs who only got into college because of their lack of brains and multitude of muscles".

She couldn't help but laugh, despite the bitter reminder of why she was in the bathroom in the first place, "I happen to be dating one of those _meat slabs_ , you know".

"I _do_ know" He replied seriously, his eyes suddenly a whole lot sharper than before, "The same way I know that _he's_ the reason for the tear streaks on your face. The same way I know that _he's_ the reason you lock yourself in a bathroom stall after ever meal. And the same way I know that _he's_ thereason you're _forcing_ yourself to _throw up_ three times a day just to make yourself _thin_ enough for him to be _happy_ with".

She stared at him in horror, "... _How dare you_ ".

"How dare I?" He had the nerve to look insulted, "How dare _I?!_ How dare _he!_ It's not _my_ fault that _your_ _boyfriend_ gets off on inadvertently _abusing_ the woman he supposedly _loves!_ "

She abruptly stood up, unlocking the door, "You don't have the right to judge my love life".

Storming out of the stall, she heard it slam shut behind her as she angrily marched away, completely unexpecting the warm hand that wrapped her wrist and spun her back again.

 _And good lord was he tall._

* * *

The man stood well over six foot, and his height was made even that more intimidating by the long Belstaff coat and the cigarette hanging loosely from his scowling mouth.

* * *

"I may not have that right" He said tightly, "But _you_ sure as hell do".

She stopped, frowning, "I don't... I don't understand..."

He sighed loudly and blew out a puff of smoke, "People never do... It's not much of a love life, is it, when you don't even love him".

She gawked, "I don't- I don't love him? What?! No! Of course I- I- Of course I love him!"

He raised a solitary eyebrow, "Really?"

He tightened his hold on her arm and forcefully turned her around to face the bathroom mirror, "Can you honestly say that to yourself and believe it?"

She stared at her reflection.

 _God_ , she looked awful.

Hair pulled back in a loose ponytail, with strands already failing around her face, smudged lipstick, smudged mascara, and tears streaking the cheap foundation she had decided to try today.

And compared to tall, dark, and handsome next to her, she looked even worse, and she only hated herself even more because of it.

"Stop that".

She started, eyes snapping up to the man's in the mirror, "Stop what?"

" _Thinking_ " He growled, yanking the cigarette from his mouth, "Stop _doubting_ yourself".

"I'm not... I'm not doubting myself-"

"No, you're just loathing yourself, which is even worse!" He snapped, "Why are people always _so_ _stupid?!_ "

"I am _not_ -"

"Oh, don't worry, it's not just you, most people are".

His flippant off-hand comment made her pause.

If it were anyone else, she'd call it arrogance.

But with _this_ man...

* * *

He watched carefully as she narrowed her eyes at him in the mirror, an almost calculating look coming into her eyes.

Huh.

 _Interesting_.

And then, the moment passed, as he took another inhale from his cigarette and her eyes zoned in on the cloud of smoke.

"Do you seriously need nicotine so much that you have to sneak into the girl's bathroom at lunch?"

He was immediately defensive.

"And what if I was?" He snarled, purposefully taking another drag to prove a point, "We all have our own vices".

She bristled, "Meaning?"

"Meaning it's just for him that your force yourself to throw up, is it?" He shot back, turning to face her fully, "You believe it yourself".

She self-consciously tugged a piece of brown hair back behind her ear as she glanced up at him, "Is my addiction really all that much difference from yours?"

"Yours is more dangerous".

"Short-term, yes, not long term".

"It could kill you".

"So could smoking".

"Smoking is the least of my worries".

She paused.

His eyes had been a little foggy when she'd first seen him...

"Drugs?" She guessed, and he gazed down at her, almost curious, "Why do you say that?"

"Well, people who spoke have a higher chance of moving onto harder drugs. That, and the fact your eyes were slightly red when you called me a liar..."

He blinked, "I could have been crying".

"You don't strike me as the emotional type".

"I'm not".

"Well there you go. That's the only remaining solution".

The blue-eyed man gave a small, yet genuine, smile, "You see but you _also_ observe... There are very few people who do that".

"You mean _you_ do".

"I mean _we_ do".

* * *

She couldn't help but smile back in return, "So, now what?"

"Now you need to dump that son of a bitch who makes you feel less worthy than you are".

She stared, "... Excuse me?"

"Well obviously you won't stop harming yourself until he's gone. Therefore, he must go".

She scoffed and gestured at his cigarette, "So who's telling you to smoke, then?"

He stiffened, "That's different".

"No. It's not".

"Yes. It is".

The dark-eyed woman folded her arms across her chest, squaring up to him, "Fine. Then how about we make a deal?"

"What kind of deal?"

"You give up drugs, including cigarettes-"

She quickly held up a hand as he made a move to object.

"And I'll-" She continued, taking a deep breath, "I'll... I'll break up with him".

"And recover".

She sighed, "I can't... It's not that simple! I can't just decide not to- not to- stop hating my body, or whatever!"

He frowned, seeming genuinely confused, "Why not? Just delete it".

"Just delete- Actually, you know what, I'm not even going to ask" She brushed back her hair once more, "Just... It'll take some time, okay. I can't guarantee that I won't make myself throw up again, even if I do start to recover... It's just not that easy".

He took one final long drag of the cigarette before reluctantly stubbing it out in the bathroom sink, "Then I propose a second clause to our deal".

"Which is?"

"Anytime you get the urge to hurt yourself, you'll tell me" He said, reaching out for her phone which she cautiously gave, "And anytime I feel the urge to get high... I'll text you".

"... Alright" She replied slowly, taking back her phone, equal parts amused and irritated that he'd just saved himself as 'Bathroom Guy', "So... That's that, then".

"That's that" He replied, fingers already twitching at his side for another cigarette, "You should get going. Classes will be starting soon".

She nodded, turning back towards the door, blushing as he held it open for her.

* * *

Coming back out into the white college hall, however, she paused, and turned to him one last time, "Hey, um, I was just wondering... who, exactly, are you?"

He glanced down at her, an unreadable expression in his eyes, "... The names Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes"

She smiles softly, "It was nice meeting you, Sherlock... I'm Molly, by the way. Molly Hooper".


	6. The Day Sherlock Knew About Mystrade

Requested by: Sherlock Harry Winchester

 **Any other requests?**

Rachel :)

* * *

 **Chapter 6: The Day Sherlock Found Out About Mystrade**

Sherlock glared at the wooden door in disgust.

 _How dare he._

How _dare_ Mycroft upset _his John_ like that.

Honestly, _kidnapping_ him.

 _Again!_

So now, he wanted revenge.

And considering how OCD his brother was, moving all his furniture just an _inch_ to the left should do it.

* * *

Reaching down, he picked the lock on the door in mere seconds, and silently slipped into the penthouse apartment.

Closing the door behind him, he paused, and smirked at the umbrella rack next to him.

His brother's favourite counterpart was missing, meaning that he wasn't home.

 _Perfect_.

Walking down the hall, he paused at the first door.

The bathroom.

There wasn't much he could move in there, so he'd leave that till last.

The next door was Mycroft's study, but even _he_ wasn't stupid enough to touch anything in there.

And then, the kitchen.

Sherlock grinned.

Now _this_ he could work with.

* * *

"I WANT TO BREAK FREE!"

Sherlock jumped a mile in the air, heart hammering at a hundred miles a second as he spun around for the source of that god-awful noise.

"I WANT TO BREAAAK FREE!"

He jerked his head back towards the kitchen door.

"I WANT TO BREAK FREE FROM YOUR LIES YOU'RE SO SELF SATISFIED I DON'T NEEEEED YOUUUUU!"

Was that...

 _Why_ was that voice so familiar?

"I'VE GOT TO BREAK FREEEEE!"

Taking a deep breath, Sherlock slowly reached forwards and pushed open the door.

"GOD KNOWSSSS! GOD KNOWS I WANT TO BREAAAAK FREEEE!"

And there, standing in the middle of his brother's kitchen, was Detective Inspector Lestrade.

Singing along to Queen.

Flipping pancakes.

And wearing nothing but a tight pair of boxers.

* * *

"What. The. Fuck?"

Lestrade abruptly startled, spinning around with the frying raised in self defence, before freezing when he saw him.

Sherlock stared.

Greg stared.

The police officer cleared his throat, slowly lowering his 'weapon'.

"Well... this is most definitely _not_ my division".

* * *

"I'VE FALLEN IN LOVEEEE!"

Lestrade quickly turned off the music, finding it not at all helpful right now, before cautiously taking a step towards the detective.

Sherlock remained motionless, eyes wide, mouth open, looking for the better part, as if he was in shock.

 _Oh god._

If he had broken Mycroft's little brother, boyfriend or not, the man _would_ end him.

Clearing his throat once more, he put down the frying pan, and took another step closer, "Sherlock, I... There's a perfectly good explanation for this".

He remained silent.

"I mean, your brother and I... we're... well... I'm sure you can guess..."

Still nothing.

"Just... Just wait there, for a minute, yea?" Lestrade finished, before quickly turning and all-but jogging back to the bedroom.

He re-emerged only a few seconds later, now wearing a bathrobe, which, personally, Sherlock found even _worse_ than just the boxers, considering that the word 'Mycroft' was embroidered just above the breast pocket.

"Right" Lestrade announced, clapping his hands together, "Your brother will be back soon, so... until then... Care for some pancakes?"

* * *

Sherlock was sitting at the breakfast bar with an uneaten plate of pancakes in front of him, still in shock and still silent, 15 minutes later when his brother did indeed finally return home.

Lestrade quickly went to greet him, closing the kitchen door behind him, not at all aware that the consulting detective could still hear them.

"Mycroft".

"Ah, Gregory, you're up, I've gotten the morning paper, how are-"

" _Mycroft_ ".

"... What has happened?"

"It's... It's Sherlock".

"Gregory, _what happened?!_ "

"Nothing! Well... _something_ , but... nothing bad! He's okay!"

"Then what is the problem?"

"It's... He's here, Mycroft".

"... Here?"

"Yes, here! He broke in for some unknown reason and found me making breakfast in the kitchen in my boxers!"

"... Oh".

"Oh? Is that all you have to say? This isn't exactly the way we said we'd tell him!"

"He's a fully grown man, Gregory, he'll be fine".

"Well that's the thing. He's not".

"... He's not?"

"No. He's _really_ not. He's currently sitting in your kitchen in shock".

"... Now why on earth would he go into shock?"

"Well how would you feel if you burst into Sherlock's flat and saw John dancing around half naked?"

"Well, I'd be... I'd be glad, I suppose".

"... Glad?"

"Gregory, honestly, it's about bloody time that John Watson found the door to that closet he's so desperately hiding in. I'd be glad for him to finally... _come out_ , I believe the phrase is".

"And what about Sherlock?"

"Well what about Sherlock?"

"Him and John... ?"

"Gregory, what are you insinuating?"

"Mycroft, if you saw John prancing about in his boxers, and only _in_ his boxers _because_ of Sherlock... _then_ how'd you feel?"

"... _Because_ of Sherlock?"

"Yes".

"As in... they'd be... _together?_ "

"Yes".

" _Without_ telling me?"

" _Yes!_ "

" _Oh_... I understand now".

* * *

Sherlock didn't move as the door swung open once more and his brother appeared.

Mycroft took one look at him, before sighing, and taking the seat next to the younger Holmes, Greg quickly brushing past to get dressed.

"Well then" The Elder began, "I can correctly assume that you now know Gregory and I are... in a relationship".

"... How long?" Sherlock asked quietly.

"How long? What do mean by-"

"Don't be an ass, Mycroft, how long have you two been together?" He snapped, abruptly standing up and beginning to pace the room.

"... Approximately 10 months, 2 weeks, and 4 days"

" _10 months, 2 weeks, and-_ You've been together _without_ me knowing for _over 10 months?!_ "

"... Yes".

He spun around to face him, both hands resting on the countertop, "Mycroft, if you were a woman, the two of you could have successfully conceived a small human by now!"

"Well then, thank god I'm not female. Small humans are rather messy individuals".

"Oh, just- just take this seriously, would you?"

"And the pot calls the kettle black" He muttered, before finally giving in at his younger brother's glare, "Sherlock... we were going to tell you eventually. We just... weren't quite sure how".

"Well a text would've been nice".

"Oh please, as if I wouldn't have at least called you".

"Then why didn't you?" He growled, beginning his pacing once more.

Mycroft sniffed, "Like I said, we were just trying to find the perfect time".

"... I will not forgive you for this".

He rolled his eyes at him, "Sherlock, you don't forgive me for anything".

"And with good reason too!" He huffed, before finally, _finally,_ calming, and returning to his seat, stabbing the now-cold pancakes with more force than necessary.

"You're just damn lucky he can cook".

The older brother smiled, knowing that they were okay once more, "Yes. You should taste his red velvet cupcakes sometime".

* * *

"So" Sherlock began, as Lestrade returned from the bedroom, thankfully fully dressed, "What now?"

"What do you mean what now?" Mycroft asked, taking a sip from his tea cup "What's changed?"

"Everything! _Everything_ has changed!" He growled, stabbing his fork in Lestrade's direction, "Just how, exactly, am I meant to take a crime scene seriously anymore, when I now know for a fact that the homicide detective in charge bakes _red velvet cupcakes?!_ "

"Oh please" He scoffed, "As if you take crime scenes seriously anyway".

The Inspector shot him a hard look, before turning to face the detective, "Nothing has to _change_ , Sherlock. I'm still your friend and Mycroft's still your brother".

"Yes, but _now_ you're something to _each other_ as well!" He snapped, folding his arms across his chest, and Mycroft sighed, putting down his cup "Oh, I should have known this would happen, you never did like to share, did you?"

He baulked, "What?! _Sharing?!_ This isn't about-"

"It's okay, Sherlock" Lestrade soothed, reaching across to take his hand, "Mycroft and I may be together now, but that doesn't mean we don't love _you_ any less".

He pouted, "But now you have each other! I can't call you in the middle of the night for a case anymore, knowing that _he_ is going to be lying next to you!"

"Or lying _on_ _top_ of-"

" _Mycroft!_ " Lestrade snapped, "Not. Helping!"

He sighed, and turned his petulant brother, "Sherlock... This really doesn't have to change anything. Gregory and I are two consenting adults who _want_ to be in this relationship. And besides, nothing was any different over the last 10 months when you _didn't_ know that we were together, now, was it?"

"... No" He reluctantly admitted, and his brother nodded, "Exactly. So stop your fretting, it's illogical and rather unbecoming".

Lestrade shook his head at his boyfriend's antics, "Let's just... see what happens, okay? And if at any time, you feel left out, then... we'll talk about it, alright?"

He slowly nodded, "Alright... But I expect a good case in way of apology, Gavin!"

"Greg" He corrected, "I'm dating your brother, my name can't possibly be considered irrelevant now".

"Fine" He pouted, standing up, "And I expect to see you at Mummy's this Christmas".

"I can... agree to that" He replied slowly, watching the younger head back to the door.

* * *

Once there, however, he paused, and turned back to face them, "Oh, and by the way... Mycroft?"

He took another sip of tea, "Yes, brother dear?"

Sherlock grinned.

"I'm fucking John".

The cup smashed in his hands.

The younger quickly dashed out the door before he could be tackled, "See you next Christmas!"


	7. Mystrade, Part One

Requested by: LizbetRx

 **Any other requests?**

Rachel :)

* * *

 **Chapter 7: Mystrade, Part One**

Lestrade was never quite sure how, exactly, they kissed.

Mycroft maintained it was the alcohol.

Sherlock claimed it was insanity.

And John was just happy for the two of them.

He had never really spoken much to the elder Holmes, always put off enough by the man's seemingly arrogant persona to prevent himself from getting to know him, or, at least, until The Fall, that was.

Not until Sherlock returned from the dead, explained why he had to die to begin with, and then say how Mycroft was the man who had helped orchestrated it.

* * *

Lestrade didn't think he ever felt as angry as he did in that moment.

* * *

So he went home that night, changed out of his uniform, ordered some chinese, scrolled through the contacts of his phone, and hit _Holmes, Mycroft._

As usual, it was his personal assistant that answered.

"I'm sorry, sir, but Mr. Holmes is currently occupied-"

"Tell him it's Greg Lestrade".

"... One moment, please".

"DI Lestrade, to what do I owe the pleasure?"

"I need you to come over".

"... To your home?"

"I presume you know where it is".

"Yes. Immediately?"

"Immediately".

And that had been that.

He wasn't sure what Mycroft had been expecting when called to an acquaintance-at-best's flat late on a Friday night, but Lestrade was convinced that he had expected the door to open and a fist to firmly plant itself on his nose.

* * *

Mycroft stumbled back a few steps and stared at him in shock, blood dripping down his chin and onto his expensive shirt collar.

Lestrade glowered at him, arms crossed, "You couldn't have _fucking_ told me?!"

"DI Les-"

"No!" He snapped, "No! Three. Years. Holmes! For three _fucking_ years you let me think he was _dead_. You even had a _fucking_ funeral for _fucks_ sake!"

"Your language is rather-"

"Oh, I haven't even _fucking_ started yet!" He growled, fists clenching painfully.

 _No_.

He took a deep breath to calm himself.

"... But he also told me, that you were the one who got him out when he got in too deep" Lestrade continued, "So, for that, at least... _thank you_ ".

Mycroft just continued to stare at him in shock, no doubt confused from this sudden turn of events, and the police officer couldn't help but feel a smug sort of satisfaction for putting the wide-eyed look on the usually unflappable man.

He grinned, and took a step back into his apartment, "Come on, your nose needs seeing to, and I got takeaway".

The elder Holmes looked strangely cautious, "I... My driver-"

"-can _wait_ " He finished firmly, "That's what you pay him to do, isn't it? And besides... John's looking after Sherlock tonight, but something tells me that you could do with some looking after too".

* * *

And it was half an hour later, sitting next to the usually pristine man, now wearing one of Lestrade's old shirts with two pieces of tissue shoved up his nose, clearly uncertain with this bad food and even worse TV, making more deductions about the show's cast than Sherlock had ever done, that Lestrade smiled softly and realised that perhaps getting to know the more-elusive Holmes wouldn't be the worst thing after all.

* * *

Mycroft was convinced it was all the beer's fault.

Being called by the DI wasn't exactly strange, but it was certainly a very _very_ rare occurrence indeed.

Being called the DI and being told to come over to his home, was definitely strange.

And being punched in the face and then offered a quiet night in by a man he hardly knew, was about as strange as the logical and predictive Holmes could deal with.

He'd always liked Lestrade, he even trusted him with Sherlock, but until that night, he'd never actually known just how kind a man the detective could be.

Sure, he had a file as wide as his arm on him, detailing all the officer had done from the day he was born until now, but he wasn't foolish enough to believe that a binder could tell him everything about something, least of all everything about a particular human.

People were emotional, after all, and that meant they weren't always predictable.

Being invited to stay the night at Lestrade's, for example, was certainly unpredictable.

And what was even more unpredictable, and definitely the beer's fault and not the fact he found himself enjoying the quick-witted man's company, was the fact that he had said _yes_.

Waking up the next morning in the detective's bed was a rather strange experience, but he quickly brushed off all uncertainties, and redressed in his freshly-washed suit.

He had planned on making a silent and quick exit, honestly, he had... until he saw the man asleep on the sitting room couch.

Lestrade was lying on his back, one arm bent back and resting underneath his head, and the other thrown across his stomach. His decidedly _toned_ stomach, Mycroft noticed, staring in fascination as the man shifted slightly and his shirt rode up. That, combined with rather low-hanging boxers, made the silver-haired detective rather... _striking_.

* * *

Mycroft had never met someone he found striking before.

* * *

He glanced over at the door longingly before turning to the kitchen, sighing as he put back down his umbrella, pulling out his phone.

As usual, Anthea was online.

 _How do you make pancakes? -MH_

 _Pancakes, boss?_

 _Yes. How? -MH_

 _You're still at that DI's flat, aren't you?_

 _Anthea. Pancakes. -MH_

 _Ooh, getting domestic, are we? Gotta say, that's a first._

 _Pancakes! -MH_

 _Okay, okay, here, I'll send you the recipe!_

Mycroft huffed, irritated, but zoomed in on the picture with interest.

He had deleted all baking skills long ago, after all, as they were rather frivolous things to remember considering he had his own personal chef.

Now, though...

He looked around the kitchen and began to quietly pull out the necessary ingredients.

It was only customary to repay your guests in kind, after all.

* * *

Lestrade frowned as he woke up, scrunching his nose as he smelt something that was almost like... _pancakes?_

Slowly sitting up, he yawned and stretched, before standing up and softly padding towards the kitchen, right hand absentmindedly scratching his stomach.

Walking into the small room, he was more than surprised to see one Mycroft Holmes awkwardly hovering next to a plate of what most certainly were pancakes, full dressed and with a rather endearing blush on his cheeks.

Mycroft's gaze drifted down to the bare expanse of skin revealed by his itching, before quickly snapped back up, and _huh, wasn't that rather interesting?_

"I..." He cleared his throat, "... I made pancakes".

He couldn't help but smile at how out-of-place the once-arrogant man was, "I can see that. There was no need, you know. I... well... to be honest, I half-expected you to have left by the time I woke up".

The elder Holmes met his gaze evenly, "As did I".

Silence.

The detective found himself actually _flushing_ under the man's intense gaze, and he quickly coughed and took a step forwards to distract himself from those piercing blue eyes.

"Yes, well, thanks for breakfast, I just hope they taste as good as they look".

* * *

He only realised his mistake by stepping forwards when it abruptly hit him that Mycroft hadn't taken a step back, and then suddenly they were standing chest-to-chest and neither of them seemed to have any issue with it.

* * *

Lestrade swallowed thickly, pinned in place by the man's startling gaze.

Mycroft nervously wet his lips, watching as the detective followed the movement, "... DI Les-"

"Greg, please" He interrupted, voice an octave lower than usual that made something twist painfully in the younger man's stomach.

"... Gregory" He finally decided, head foggy, "I... I don't know what this is".

"What _what_ is?"

" _This_ " He continued, frustrated, thoughts strangely jumbled, "I can't... I don't... I don't _know_ what I'm doing and- and I've _never_... There's this _feeling_ that just-"

The detective felt something in his heart crack at the usually emotionless man's confused and somewhat scared rambling.

"Well" He replied, still captured by the man's rather beautiful blue eyes, "What's this... _feeling_... telling you to do?"

Mycroft started, then blinked.

"... Telling me to do?"

"Yea".

"It's..."

He slowly trailed off, before blinking once more, and before he could stop himself, his right hand came up to gently rest against the officer's cheek while his left landed rather possessively on his hip.

"Gregory..."

" _Mycroft_ " He whispered, leaning into the cool touch, watching with sickening pity how the man seemed surprised by the action, "Just... Let your emotions control you, alright? Just this once?"

* * *

He could already feel his barriers crashing down, and the tidal waves of emotion were all telling him to do the same one identical thing.

* * *

Lestrade melted into the embrace as Mycroft finally leant forwards and sealed his lips with his own. His found his own arms coming up to wrap around the man's neck while the hand on his waist tightened enough to _bruise_ , causing him to hiss in delight. Mycroft took no notice, stepping forwards until the detective was forced back against the kitchen counter, hard press handles _digging_ into his back as the younger man claimed his mouth so _thoroughly_ , so _completely_ , so _Mycroft_ that he was left breathless and forced to pull back, gasping for air, the other using that as an excuse to tilt his head back and latch both teeth _and_ tongue onto the corner of his mouth, his jaw, his _neck_ , sucking licking bruising biting _claiming_ him for the world to see and _fuck_ , if that didn't make Lestrade _groan_ and grip the man's hair to pull him even _closer_.

" _My-_ "

And then suddenly, it was as if a spell had been broken.

* * *

Jerking back, Mycroft all but fell back against the counters on the other side of the small kitchen, suit jacket rumbled, shirt wrinkled, and tie askew. His eyes were wild and his hair was a mess, but _god_ that made Lestrade only want him more.

"I..."

His voice came out as a low rumble and he quickly coughed and tried again.

"I... I'm sorry, I- I didn't mean to- to"

Lestrade frowned, worry replacing all previous desire as he straightened up and took a step forwards, startled when Mycroft flinched back, eyes downcast and body tense.

Silence.

"... I should go" the elder Holmes finally said, giving Lestrade a wide berth as he practically ran past him to the front door.

"Mycroft, wait!"

The man didn't even pause, simply picked up his umbrella and stepped out into the hall, "Thank you for last night, Gregory".

"Would you just let me-"

But it was too late.

By the time Lestrade got to the door, Mycroft had already gone.

Letting out a heavy sigh, he collapsed back against the door, head reeling and thoughts spinning.

* * *

 _What the hell had just happened?!_


	8. Mystrade, Part Two

**Chapter 8: Mystrade, Part Two**

Lestrade watched in silent confusion as Mycroft left his apartment bock three stories below and quickly walked to the awaiting non-descript black car that pulled up the curb with perfect timing.

It was well after the car had left before he snapped out of it, and he slowly walked back to the kitchen where the pile of pancakes remained.

 _What the hell had just happened?!_

Taking a deep breath, he glanced around his empty apartment, the pancakes and empty chinese cartons the only sign that last night and this morning had, in fact, happened.

He found himself heading towards his bedroom, the bed made perfectly, of course.

Sitting down on the edge of it, he stared at the pillow where Mycroft's head had been resting only an hour before.

Lestrade glanced around the room guiltily before giving into the temptation and leaning forward, smelling it.

The pillow still had his scent, fresh soap, leather and expensive single malt scotch.

He couldn't help but smile, before immediately shaking his head at himself.

 _God_ , he needed help, and fast.

* * *

Jogging up the stairs in Baker Street, he knocked twice on the door before entering.

John was sitting in his usual armchair and glanced up at him briefly before turning back to his morning newspaper, "Sherlock's in the shower. Would you like a cup of tea while you wait?"

"I didn't come here to talk to Sherlock".

John frowned, turning to face him fully, and finally took in his harried and unkempt appearance.

Immediately the newspaper was discarded as the man jumped to his feet, "Greg? Are you alright? What's wrong?"

"I'm fine, I'm fine, don't worry" He quickly replied, walking over to sit down across from the man, "Or... at least... I think I am".

He slowly retook his seat, "You... _think_ you are? It's only 9 o'clock, what on earth could have happened?"

He took a deep breath, struggling not to smile, "... Mycroft Holmes kissed me".

"I... I'm sorry, I don't think I heard you-"

"You heard me perfectly well".

"... Mycroft Holmes kissed you?"

"Yes".

"... Mycroft Holmes _kisses_ people?"

"Apparently so" He replied, "And he's surprisingly quite good at it, too".

John stared at him.

Lestrade stared back.

"... _Mycroft Holmes kissed you?!_ "

"Yes!" He exclaimed, unable to fight back his wide grin any longer, and the younger man stared at him as if he were mad, "And you... you... you're _happy_ about this?"

"Well I don't see any reason not to be" He admitted, "He stayed over last night, and then this morning I found him making pancakes, and being perfectly honest I think he's kind of cute, so why wouldn't I be happy?"

"... I literally don't know which part of that sentence to address first".

* * *

" _John!_ " He groaned, "Don't blank out on me here! I need your advice!"

"On?" He replied faintly.

"On what the hell do I do now?"

"...Well, what happened? After the whole pancake thing?"

Lestrade sighed and collapsed back in his seat, "It was after the whole pancake thing that he kissed me... He sort of freaked out".

"I can imagine" He replied sympathetically, "Mycroft's even more emotionally buttoned-up than that moron in the shower. I'm surprised he even gave in and kissed you to begin with".

The detective winced, "Ah... yea... about that... I may have pushed him".

"Into kissing you?"

"Not specifically!" He defended, "I just... I just said he shouldn't be so logical all the time. That he should... _embrace_ his emotions, or something like that anyway".

"And then he kissed you".

"And then he kissed me".

John went to speak once more, but was interrupted by a flurry of movement from the door, and both men quickly looked up as Sherlock waltzed in, hair still wet and only his pyjamas on.

* * *

He barely spared them a nod in his journey to the kitchen, "Ah, Lestrade, I've only been back a few days, and you're already out of your dept? Though, that's no surprise really, considering-"

He abruptly stopped.

The older detective held his breath.

Sherlock suddenly spun on the spot to face him.

"... Oh no".

John frowned, picking up his tea cup, "Oh no? 'Oh no' what? What are you-"

"No" He interrupted, "No no no no no... _No_... No-"

"Sherlock!" His flatmate snapped, "What on _earth_ is the matter?!"

The younger man didn't even glance at him, instead stalking towards Lestrade much like a cat would stalk its prey, and it irritated the man to no end knowing that the genius could evoke such a primal fear in him as this.

He didn't stop walking until he was directly in front of him, their knees touching.

" _You didn't_ ".

Lestrade blinked, not quite sure what he was being accused of.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him, "Oh my _god_ , you _did!_ "

"... I did _what_ , exactly?"

"You kissed him back".

John choked on his tea.

The younger Holmes sighed and reached down, his thin body betraying his strength as he easily pulled the police officer to his feet.

Staring at him for a solid minute, Lestrade had just begun to squirm under a rather _familiar_ piercing gaze when the man finally decided to speak.

"Well then" He announced, "Welcome to the family".

And before he could say anything in response, Sherlock had tugged him forwards into a- a- a _hug_.

The elder's arms cautiously came up to wrap around the man's shoulders, and he felt the other sigh again, leaning close enough to speak in a whisper that only Lestrade could hear.

"Just remember, that if you hurt him? _I will fucking end you_ ".

* * *

Mycroft let out a heavy breath that he hadn't realised he'd be holding the second the car door shut behind him.

At the other end of the seat, Anthea looked up and raised a single eyebrow at his rumbled appearance.

"The pancakes were _that_ good, huh?"

He closed his eyes in defeat, "Remind me again why I hired you?"

"Because you need a human input every so often".

"Oh yes" He replied, eyes reopening as he turned to face her, "I find myself rather in need of that input right now".

"You don't say" She replied dryly, putting down her phone.

And _that's_ how he knew how serious this was.

"You kissed him" Anthea stated, and Mycroft nodded.

"Did you do anything else?"

"No" He replied with certainty.

"But you wanted to".

"Yes".

* * *

She smirked at the absolute lack of hesitation but he refused to let himself flush under her knowing gaze.

* * *

"Okay then" She continued, "Why did you stop at just a kiss?"

"I don't know. That's the problem".

She hummed thoughtfully, "... Do you like him?"

"I do".

"Do you love him?"

"I'm not capable of love".

Anthea turned to face him fully, "Mycroft. This is _me_ you're talking to".

He sighed and ran a hand tiredly over his face, "I'm not... I've never felt love before".

"But...?"

" _But_... if I had to put a label on this... _emotion_... then perhaps that would be the most suitable".

He watched as her eyes lit up in excitement, "I never thought this day would come".

"You and I both" He replied wryly, and she rolled her eyes at him, "Oh come off it, Mycroft, you're not half a sociopath you make yourself out to be. You love him. What's wrong with that?"

"It's a weakness. It makes _me_ weak".

"Sherlock _died_ for _three years_ because of love... Was that a weakness?"

"That was different".

"No, it wasn't, and you know it" She snapped, "Just because there currently isn't a sniper pointed at Lestrade's head doesn't mean you're any less willing to lay down your life for him".

"... What do I do?"

"You tell him how you feel".

"We've barely ever spoken to each other. He's not going to believe me".

"Then show him the binder you have on him" She replied, and Mycroft glanced over at her, "... That would most likely disturb him greatly".

"But" She countered, "It would also show him that you're serious about this. That you do, in fact, know him. Perhaps not by traditional methods, but..."

She trailed off, seeing the realisation dawning in his eyes.

"And besides" Anthea grinned, "If he _isn't_ creeped out? Then you'll know for definite that he's the one for you".

* * *

It was an entire week later that the unlikely pair met up again.

Once again, Lestrade was never quite sure how, exactly, it happened, and Mycroft blamed the alcohol.

And standing there, at the detective's door, dressed in a casual shirt and pair of jeans that Anthea had forced him to wear, a thick binder tucked under one arm, being stared at in shock by the detective himself, Mycroft wished that he had drunk some of the alcohol he was currently holding up as a peace offering, because thinking and doing were two _completely_ different things.

"Well" Lestrade finally said, "I suppose you better come in then".

He nodded quickly, stepping into the apartment before the older man changed his mind, and awkwardly hovered at the doorway of the sitting room as the officer put the beer in the fridge.

"Have a seat".

He jumped, startled, having not heard the man return, and Gregory smiled softly at him, cautiously reaching out and taking his hand, "... Come on, I'll order us some takeaway".

* * *

It was an entire hour, an indian, and three beers later that Mycroft gathered up the courage to shove the binder into the older man's lap.

He had seen Lestrade shooting curious glances at it all night, but thankfully, being the good man that he was, he hadn't mentioned it.

Now, though, he looked down at it in surprise, slowly reaching out to open the front cover.

Mycroft stared at him in silence throughout the whole process, watching as the man's expression varied from shock to anger to _awe_.

And finally, _finally_ , after half an hour, he had looked at every page and closed the back cover with a resounding _*thud*._

"... You have a folder on me".

"A binder" He couldn't help but correct, "I... I have one on everyone who comes into contact with Sherlock".

Lestrade slowly nodded, "And you... you wanted to show me this, because...?"

"Because I want you to know that- that- that I..." He slowly trailed off, unsure how to finish, "I... I wanted to show you that I _do_ know you".

"By stalking me?"

"By _surveillancing_ you" He replied, "I'm not a criminal, Gregory. I always have a reason for everything I do".

"And this was to protect your brother".

"Yes".

"And then to convince me that you know every single little detail about my life?" He finished incredulously, and he sighed, frustrated, "No! _No_ , you're not... you don't _understand_. I don't... _I_ _don't_ _know_ everything about you".

He tapped the binder on his lap, "It's all right here, Mycroft".

"Your life, yes" He agreed, "But not _you_ ".

Lestrade stared at him, unsure whether to be weirded out, flattered, or both.

"... You have to explain this to me" He finally said, and the elder Holmes nodded, "Yes. I know. But I don't... I don't know how to".

"What do you mean 'I don't know how to'?" He exclaimed, "Mycroft, just what _the hell_ is going on?!"

* * *

He kissed him.

* * *

Lestrade automatically reached out and wrapped his arms around the man's neck, pulling him closer. Mycroft leant forwards, pushing him backwards until he was forced to lie back on the couch, mouth gladly opening in response to a probing tongue, and he couldn't help but grin into the kiss as the elder Holmes growled at the intruding binder, catching it and flinging it across the room to where it hit the wall and fell, pages scattering everywhere.

"I don't care about what I can find out about you myself" He panted, trailing kisses down his already-bruised neck, "I only care about what you can tell me".

"Mycroft-"

" _No_ " He interrupted, hands coming to rest on his hips, "I need to- I need to say this".

Lestrade groaned as he sucked on a particularly sensitive spot just below his ear.

"I don't know how to explain it" He repeated, "Because- Because I've never _felt_ this before".

He writhed underneath the man's inexperienced but skilled touch.

"I don't know how because I've never had to explain it to someone" Mycroft continued, mouthing his words down his neck and along his collarbones.

"I don't know how" He rumbled, "Because there's not enough words in the English language to adequately express these emotions I feel every time you're near me".

Lestrade grabbed a fistful of hair and tugged him up into a harsh, dominant, wet kiss.

"You're an _ass_ , Mycroft Holmes" He growled, hands drifting lower and lower, "Why couldn't you have started with that?"

* * *

The younger man chuckled, and _fuck_ if that didn't cause the detectives stomach to do flips.

* * *

"Because us Holmes never do anything the easy way" came the eloquent response, "Do you want to hear something rather... embarrassing?"

"Always".

He smirked against his mouth, blue eyes crinkling at the edges and Lestrade could have died happily right there and then.

"I used to pay criminals to steal purses whenever you were near".

He abruptly pulled back, "... You used to do _what?_ "

Mycroft nodded, an endearing light pink flushing his cheekbones, "I, ah... I like your uniform".

"... My uniform?"

"Yes. You look... rather dashing in it. Especially since the trousers are slightly too small".

Lestrade stared at him, an incredulous grin slowly beginning to make its way across his face, "Hang on a minute... You used to pay criminals to steal purses whenever I was near... so you could _watch_ me _run_ in _tight trousers?!_ "

"... Yes".

"... _God_ , you're really one of a kind, aren't you?" He whispered, staring up at him in such awe that Mycroft felt himself blush again.

He quickly cleared his throat to distract himself, "May I have your phone?"

"In my pocket".

He coughed awkwardly and reached a hand down between them to fish it out.

"What's your passcode?"

"Greg".

He glanced up at him, "... Greg?"

"Yes" He replied, "And do you know why?"

"... No".

"Because the only person that I know of who regularly tries to hack my phone, is your brother. And my first name is the only thing on this planet that Sherlock Holmes does not know".

Mycroft stared at him, "... I love you".

Lestrade blinked, surprised, and he quickly continued on, "Not just because of that. Because of a lot of reasons. That was just bad timing. Don't worry, you don't have to say it back, it kind of just slipped out, I'm not expecting anything, just-"

He quickly tapped a few buttons on the phone before handing it to the detective.

"There. That's my number".

He frowned, confused, "But I already have your number".

"You have my work number" He replied, looking rather shy all of a sudden, "That's... that's my personal number".

Greg stared at the digits for a minute, before smiling and hitting a few keys, keeping the screen faced away from curious eyes, "... Thank you".

Mycroft ducked his head to avoid his affectionate gaze, and the detective's smile softened as he tossed his phone to the side, hands coming up to loop around the younger man's neck once more, "Now so, where were we?"

* * *

It was many, many hours later, as Mycroft lay in bed staring in awe at the silver-haired beauty lying next to him, that he finally checked his phone.

One rather smug text from Anthea.

Four missed calls from Sherlock.

One exasperated voicemail from John apologising on his behalf.

And-

He frowned.

 _One new message from Lestrade, Gregory._

He slowly reached up and tapped on it, noting the time that it was sent.

7.43pm.

The same time he had given the man his personal number.

Scrolling down, he read the message and couldn't help but smile.

 _You know what, Mycroft? I think I might just love you too -GL_


	9. Sherolly post 'The Final Problem'

Requested by: Mariott

Hope you enjoy!

Rachel :)

* * *

 **Chapter 9: Sherolly post 'The Final Problem'**

Molly sat in the café, both hands wrapped around a long-since cold cup of coffee, wondering whether or not it was a mistake to come here.

* * *

" _Molly I just want you to do something very easy for me and not ask why"._

" _Oh my god- is this one of your stupid games?!"_

" _No, Molly, this is not a game, I... I need you to help me"._

" _I'm not at the lab"._

" _It's not about that"._

" _Well, quickly, then"._

* * *

She couldn't help but recall the events that had started all of this, that midday phone call, holding more danger than she ever knew.

* * *

" _Sherlock, what is it? What do you want?"_

" _Molly please, without asking why, just say these words"._

" _What words?"_

" _I love you"._

" _Leave me alone!"_

" _No Molly please do not hang up, please don't hang up!"_

* * *

At the time, she'd been incredulous, and with good reason too.

* * *

" _Why are you doing this to me? Why are you making fun of me?"_

" _Please I swear you just have to listen to me"._

" _Molly this is for a case, it's a sort of experiment"._

" _I'm not an experiment Sherlock"._

" _No, I know you're not an experiment, you're my friend. We're friends, but- Please, just- say those words for me"._

" _Please don't do this. Just- Just- Don't do it"._

* * *

The part that killed her the most, was the fact that the great Sherlock Holmes had been reduced to begging. There, in the moment, she hadn't realised it's significance, not when he was doing that to her, teasing her, mocking her, _hurting_ her.

* * *

" _It's very important. I can't say why, but I promise you it is"._

" _I can't say that- I can't- I can't say that to you"_

" _Course you can, why can't you?"_

" _You know why"._

" _No, I don't know why"._

" _Of course you do"._

* * *

It was only after she'd hung up that she'd realised something was very, _very_ , wrong. Sherlock didn't beg, he didn't plead, he never did anything other than treat her with that dismissive arrogance.

* * *

" _Please, just say it"._

" _I can't. Not to you-"_

" _Why?"_

" _Because... Because it's true. Because it's true, Sherlock. It's always been true..."_

" _... Well if it's true, just say it anyway"._

" _You bastard"._

* * *

He never cared, of course he never cared. What was it that he called himself? A sociopath? No emotions. So, she tested him, made him give into his _own_ feelings, even if they were fake. Because not even the great Sherlock Holmes could remain stoic when confessing his love.

* * *

" _Say it anyway"._

" _You say it. Go on. You say it first"._

" _What?"_

" _Say it. Say it like you mean it"._

" _I... I love you... I love you... Molly. Molly please!"_

" _... I love you"._

* * *

She took a deep breath to push away her tears and turned to look out the window just as a taxi pulled up outside.

And none other than the reason for her demise stepped out.

It was a mistake coming here.

* * *

Sherlock quickly paid the cab fare before turning to face the small café Molly had asked him to meet her in.

But he didn't know _why_ she asked, something which irritated him to no end.

He knew why _he_ had agreed, after all, as there were many lose ends that needed to be wrapped up after the entire Eurus debacle.

But as for Molly...

Well.

He shook his head and strode into the dimly lit coffee shop, immediately spying the small brunette sitting by the window in the corner.

Marching over, he took the seat opposite her, leant forward, elbows on the table, and waited.

* * *

Molly stared at him, at his infant curls and baby blue eyes and high cheekbones that just-

She quickly lowered her gaze to her mug.

There was no reason to make this any harder than what was necessary.

"... Sherlock-"

"Yes?"

And _god_ that _voice_.

"Sherlock... we need to talk".

"About?"

Her gaze snapped up to his, furious, and she glared at him, "You can't possibly be serious!"

He merely frowned and tilted his head to the side, "You're angry".

"Of course I'm angry!" She snarled, uncaring of the odd looks from nearby customers, "You can't honestly believe that there's nothing we need to discuss! _The phone call,_ Sherlock!"

"Oh... that".

She felt tears prickle behind her eyes, and shoved away her coffee cup, hands coming to clutch tightly at each other instead.

"How can you be so- so- so _uncaring?_ So _cruel?_ "

His piercing eyes studied her curiously, "... You were telling the truth. In that phone call. You... You _love_ me".

She abruptly stood up, unable to take any more of his ridicule, "I shouldn't have asked you to come here. This was a mistake".

Picking up her bag, she spun on the spot and marched towards the door.

* * *

Sherlock stared after her in shock, before suddenly spying the coat left on the chair behind her.

Picking it up, he raced after the furious woman.

"Molly, wait!"

She didn't even glance back.

Swearing under his breath, he jogged down the rapidly-darkening street and grabbed her arm, spinning her around to face him.

Molly glared at him, eyes watering, " _What_ , Sherlock? Just- Just what the _hell_ do you want from me?!"

He slowly held up clothing in his hand, "... You forget your coat".

She let out a broken laugh that ended up as a sob, and grabbed it from him, "Thanks. No, really, _thank you_ Sherlock. For _everything_ ".

"I... I didn't know" He said quietly, "That you were..."

"Serious about it?" She guessed, "I _told_ you, Sherlock. _I told you_ that it was true, that I _couldn't_ _say it_ because it was true... How did you _not_ know?"

The younger Holmes shifted from one foot to the other restlessly, "Because you've always been kind to me, even when I didn't deserve it, and... I wasn't thinking straight. Not then. Not when... not when I thought you were about to be killed".

Molly stared up at him, taking in his now-frazzled appearance, all wild eyes and even wilder hair, and couldn't help but smile even as the first tear rolled down her cheek.

"Only you, Sherlock, could mistake a love confession for someone being _kind_ ".

"But that's what people do. Be kind" He continued, almost desperately, "John tells his girlfriends that he loves them even when I know he doesn't. As do the people in those god-awful soap operas' that he watches".

She laughed, then hiccupped, and his raised his hand without thinking about it, gently wiping away her tears.

"Don't cry. You're not as pretty when you cry".

"God, you really are a charmer, aren't you?"

He frowned, head tilting once more to the side like an overgrown and confused puppy, and it warmed her heart to the core.

* * *

Taking a deep breath, she looked up at him, and finally stated the reason for the entire afternoon.

"I want you to kiss me".

He blinked, taken aback, but she ploughed on regardless.

"One kiss, Sherlock. Just... Just one kiss, please?" She asked desperately, "I need... I need closure. Just one kiss and- and- and then I'll let you go".

He slowly reached up and cupped her cheek, and her own hands came up to hold him there, leaning into the warm touch.

"That... That would make you happy?"

"Yes".

"... Okay".

* * *

Ducking down, Sherlock paused momentarily, taking in her wide eyes and tear-stained face, and felt something odd grip at his heart. Ignoring the feeling, he let his other hand come up to rest at the base of her neck, and finally closed the distance between them.

Molly gripped his coat collar harder, tugging him down and pulling him even closer as warm lips met her own. Kissing Sherlock Holmes was all that she expected it to be, plus more. His mouth was soft, gentle, but she had no illusions that he couldn't be bruising if he wanted to be. He tasted nice too, like mint and- and smoke? She opened her mouth on request, and all but melted against him in response, his strong arms the only thing keeping her upright.

But, as all good things do, it eventually came to an end.

* * *

Sherlock slowly pulled back, panting, and rested his forehead against hers.

He felt... strangely lightheaded, and that tight hold on his heart was squeezing with a vengeance now but he wasn't displaying any other symptoms of a heart condition, but now that he thought about it, he was feeling rather... euphoric, almost like how he used to feel when high. And his stomach was twisted in knots and his palms were sweaty and his thoughts were fuzzy and-

 _Oh_.

"Molly?" He breathed.

" _Sherlock_..."

"... What does love feel like?" He whispered.

Molly felt herself tense at the question, expecting more teasing but-

It never came.

Instead, she was left staring into confused blue eyes mere inches from her own, and felt the hand at the back of her neck tighten unconsciously.

She hardly dared to breath, "... What?"

"Love" He repeated, "What does it feel like?"

"... Like you'd do anything to make the other person happy" She said, "Like you'd lay down your life for them at a second's notice... Like you can't breathe when you're near them... Like you can't think straight and you're happy and sad at the same time and full of _so much_ of this _feeling_ that it just-"

"-consumes you" He finished quietly.

She held her breath, watching as his thoughts ran haywire, trying to piece together something she could only _imagine_ being capable of understanding.

Eventually, however, he smiled, and her heart rate increased.

"Molly?"

"Yes Sherlock?

"... I've just made a rather startling deduction".

She smiled back, their foreheads still touching, "And what would that be, then?"

"I think..." He began carefully, even as he pulled her impossibly closer, "I think, Molly Hooper, that I'm in love with you".


	10. The Holmes Siblings

**Requested by: Sherlock Harry Winchester**

Not entirely sure if it's what you expected, but I hope you enjoy nonetheless!

Rachel :)

* * *

 **Chapter 10: The Holmes Siblings**

Sherlock peered over the crib curiously, staring in wide-eyed wonder at the silent baby looking back up at him.

Next to him, Mycroft sighed petulantly, "She'll still be here tomorrow, you know".

He gave a soft smile, "She's very pretty".

"She's only a few days old, Sherlock. I'd say she resembles a potato more than a person whom could be considered _pretty_ ".

He stuck out his tongue at the eldest Holmes, his youth overtaking his intelligence.

"You're just jealous".

"Of a black haired loud toddler?"

"I've got black hair! She got my hair!"

Mycroft sighed, stared speculatively at the wild curls, "Yes, unfortunately she does. But let's just hope she doesn't get your hair texture also".

He pouted and turned back to the crib where greeny-grey eyes gazed back at him, "She got mummy's eyes. They're too green to be mine".

"No one knows why you have blue eyes Sherlock, in fact genetically speaking, you are something of an outlier".

"Out-li-ar? What's that mean?"

"What _does_ that mean, please correct your grammar" He shot back, "And it means that you're strange".

"We're _all_ strange" He replied firmly, "You, me, and Jessica!"

"Jessica?" Mycroft's lips curled in disgust as he straightened up resolutely, "Oh, heavens no. No sibling of mine will have such a boring _common_ name".

Sherlock glanced up at him, frowning, "But that's what mummy and daddy call her".

"Yes, and they also call you William and me Alexander. What sort of dull names are those?" He replied, "No. She shall take her middle name just as we have done".

The younger slowly nodded and turned back to the baby, "The East Wind".

"Yes, the East Wind" He agreed, reaching in as she held up a chubby arm, tiny fingers immediately wrapping around his thumb.

He couldn't help but give a small smile, "Hello, little Eurus. Welcome to the family".

* * *

She was 6 months old when she started speaking, and much to the younger brother's approval and the elder brother's shame, her first words were "Sherlock".

Her second word, however, and only redeeming feature according to Mycroft, was "deduction".

From then on, they were inseparable, and it was clear from the beginning that the youngest Holmes child was just as, if not _more_ , intelligent as her brothers.

By age 1, she could have fully fledged conversations with her family, by age 2, she could write and read, surpassing even her brother's early development stages, and by age 3, she could teach Sherlock violin and win a chess match against Mycroft.

They were best friends, perfectly balanced, and the only people that could understand each other, and she was clearly the baby of the family, despite being the most gifted.

It was a silent agreement amongst the two older boys that they would protect her at all cost.

* * *

And then mummy made the error of introducing them to other children.

* * *

"Well this is ghastly" Mycroft announced after approximately 0.7 seconds of arriving at the playground.

Next to him, automatically reaching out for his brother's hand for comfort, Sherlock nodded, "What _is_ mummy thinking of?"

On the other side of Sherlock, holding onto _his_ hand, stood Eurus, staring in shock at the screaming children in front of them.

"They're all... _idiots_ ".

"Maybe we can deduce them for fun".

Mycroft rolled his eyes at him in all his 11-year-old glory, "Oh, don't be smart".

Sherlock groaned, "Why do you always have to _say that?_ 'Don't be smart, Sherlock, _I'm_ the smart one".

"I _am_ the smart one".

"I used to think I was an idiot".

"We all thought you were an idiot, Sherlock" Eurus replied, "We've had nothing else to go on until now".

Mycroft nodded, "Yes. This is most definitely a mistake".

"Why is mummy even doing this to us?" Eurus asked.

"Probably something about trying to make friends" the younger brother replied, and the elder nodded, "Oh, yes. _Friends_ ".

"Well" Sherlock finally decided, "Mummy said she'd pick us up in half an hour, so, until then..."

"Agree to meet back here in 25 minutes?" Mycroft asked, and they all nodded in response.

* * *

Making his way over to the monkey bars, Sherlock watched with interest as once red-haired boy made it completely across, his feet swinging half a meter off the ground.

Turning back around, he grinned at him, "'ello. Are you new?"

Sherlock frowned, "In general? Of course not, I'm five years old. At this playground? Yes".

The boy blinked, "... You don't go to school wi'v me".

The younger Holmes smirked, "I'm home-schooled".

"Poor you".

"Why?"

"Well, it must get lonely".

"I have my siblings".

"Oh... I don't like my siblings. My sister's always mean to me".

"My sister and I get along perfectly well".

The boy frowned, "You speak funny".

"It's 'talk'. Not speak" He corrected before taking a deep breath and holding out his hand, "I'm Sherlock Holmes. Will you be my friend? My mummy says I have to make one now or she'll leave me until I do".

"A'right!" He replied, grinning, "I'm Victor. Victor Trevor".

* * *

Mycroft carefully sat down on the swings, watching his siblings carefully.

Sherlock, it would seem, had already made an acquaintance, and the black-haired boy was currently being shown how to cross monkey bars without falling flat on his face.

Currently, he was failing miserably.

Letting his gaze drift across the playground, he found his little sister standing in front of a group of kids playing in the sandpit.

He frowned.

The children were older than her, more around his own age than hers, and despite the fact he knew perfectly well that she was a 3-year-old with far more intelligence than a 6-year-old, the other kids might not see it that way.

And children really could be rather cruel.

Hearing chains creak near him, he turned only to find a boy not much older than he was take the seat next to him and give him a shy smile.

"Hi".

"Hello" He replied coolly.

He nervously kicked the dirt beneath his feet, "I'm, uh, I'm Greg".

"Mycroft".

The older gestured at the sand pit where Eurus was now kneeling down next to a dark-haired boy, "You here to mind your sibling too? My sister Anthea is around here somewhere"

He nodded, strangely fascinated by this quiet yet bright-eyed boy, "Yes. My sister _and_ my brother... Though mummy did threaten to take away my chess set if I didn't make any friends".

Greg gave him a funny look, "Your chess set? What are you, like, 10?"

"11, actually" He replied primly, turning back to check on Sherlock, and the boy frowned, "Oh, no, I didn't mean to... _mock_ you, or whatever. It's just... well... I'm 13 years old, and I still find chess really complicated. You must be really smart".

"I'm a genius" He said simply, "It runs in the family".

Greg laughed, and Mycroft couldn't help but smile at the sight.

"You may be a genius, but you sure as hell ain't modest" He shot back, "This is your first time at the playground, then?"

"Yes" He replied faintly, watching as his sister suddenly got to her feet as another boy marched over, and the band of children around them separated into a wide circle.

"Uh oh" came the eloquent response next to him, "Now _that_ looks like trouble".

* * *

Quickly standing up, he began to walk over, thankful to find Sherlock almost immediately fall into step next to him, while Greg jogged to catch up.

Meeting his brother's eyes, he gave a near-invisible gesture at their sister hovering in the middle of the group, and received an imperceptible nod in return. Sherlock was the slightest of the three, after all, and his lean frame would have no trouble squeezing in between other's twice his age.

Arriving at what was now most certainly a fight, Mycroft quickly squeezed himself into the circle with every intention of finding out _just_ _who the hell dared threaten his little sister?!_

Sherlock, as quick and agile as always, had successfully managed to pull the tearful Eurus from the circle without anyone noticing, while the eldest Holmes stole everyone's attention by tapping the boy, who had his fist raised, on the shoulder.

* * *

"Excuse me?"

The boy spun around to face him, and Mycroft quickly estimated he was around 12 years of age and quite... jealous?

Jealous of what?

"Yea? What do you want?!" He snarled.

"To dispatch this pathetic excuse of a fight" He replied dryly, and the crowd around them boo-ed.

"Well that's just too bad, cause I fully intend on fighting that little-"

"I would strongly advise against finishing that sentence".

"Oh yea?" He smirked, turning to face him fully, "And why's that?"

"She's my sister" Mycroft said tightly, "And if you insult, injure, or upset her in any way, I will not be responsible for my actions".

He laughed, "What could you do about it, kid? You saying you could take me on?"

"I know I could".

The crowd riled up once more, and Mycroft subtly glanced past the angry boy to see Sherlock crouched down in front of Eurus, far away on the other side of the playground, with Greg standing guard in front of them, and a young girl, who he could only presume to be Greg's sister, talking quietly to his youngest sibling. And as if sensing his stare, his brother looked up, meeting his gaze squarely as he gave a small nod.

* * *

 _She was okay then._

* * *

He turned back to the boy, "What is your name?"

"... What?"

"Your name" He replied tightly, "What is it?"

He stared at him, clearly confused, "... Sebastian".

"Okay then, Sebastian, why did you try to hit my 3-year-old sister?"

He shifted on the spot, uncomfortably, "She's... She's only 3? Man, I thought she was... like... at leat 6 or something".

"That doesn't answer my question".

Sebastian swallowed nervously and glanced to the side, and Mycroft followed his gaze only to find the dark-haired boy that Eurus had knelt down besides staring back, calmly.

" _Oh_ " He said suddenly, "I see... You were jealous".

The older boy turned back and glared at him, "What?!"

"Of my sister sitting next to your friend" Mycroft explained, "You were jealous, because you thought she'd stolen him from you... That's why you tried to fight her. To win him back".

He hummed thoughtfully, "Though I suppose your friend knew all this, based on his expression, and wanted to see you fight. You're close, a bit _too_ close, and you wanted to prove your worth to him, you _needed_ to prove your worth-"

He was abruptly cut off as a sharp fist made contact with his jaw, and he was sent spiralling back into the crowd who merely cheered and shoved him forwards.

"Well if I can't fight her, I'm sure as hell going to fight you!" Sebastian snarled, and Mycroft carefully brought a hand to his mouth, only to find it stain with blood.

Glancing back up at him, he could only smirk as he saw Sherlock sneak up silently behind the taller boy.

"Agreed" He replied easily, stepping forwards as his brother did the same, "But you threatened by baby sister. So don't expect me to fight fair".

* * *

And when Mrs. Holmes showed up exactly 20 minutes later to collect her three children, she found them waiting by the gate in various stages of disarray.

She stared, shocked into place, as they all looked up when she arrived.

Mycroft, with a split lip but proud grin, threw his arm around a shy-looking teen, "Mummy, I'd like to introduce you to Gregory".

Sherlock, holding his wrist protectively to his chest but using his other arm to hold the hand of a red-haired boy, also smirked, "Meet Victor".

And little Eurus, with tears staining her cheeks but a bright smile on her face, gestured at the young girl standing next to her, "And this is Anthea".

She stared at their defiant faces, took a deep breath, and then thanked whatever deity that was out there, that she hadn't tried for a fourth child.


	11. Freak

**Any requests?!**

Rachel :)

* * *

 **Chapter 11: Freak**

He was 11-years-old when he fully realised that he wasn't the same as everyone else.

"Hey! Hey freak!"

Sherlock bristled but ignored the insult, and continued to walk away from the classroom, blocking out the heavy steps of the four boys following him.

"Oy! Smartass! I'm talking to you!"

Taking a deep breath, he picked up his pace, knowing that once he left the building he'd be safe.

 _Only 37 more steps and you're outside- only 36 more steps and you're outside- only 35 more steps and you're outside-_

"HEY!"

He was suddenly yanked back as his schoolbag was grabbed from behind, and before he could blink there was a hand gripping the collar of his shirt and he was suspended an entire foot off the ground.

Oh, how he _loathed_ being so young.

The teenager glared at him, "What, you think you're _too cool_ to answer when your name is called?"

"My name is not 'freak'" He replied quietly, and the boy laughed, "Oh, it isn't, is it?"

"No. It's Sherlock" He said defiantly, "Sherlock Holmes".

And with another laugh, he was dropped, landing in a heap of long limps and twisted backpack on the filthy tiles below, causing the other's in the group to laugh.

"Well, that makes sense. _Holmes_. No wonder you're in the same year as me, you're not smart, your daddy just wrote a big cheque".

The teenager delivered a powerful kick to his chest, and Sherlock curled up with a groan.

"Why else would a 12-year-old by in Year 11? You should be three years below me! At least!"

Another kick, this time landing painfully on his shin.

"You're nothing but a freak!" the boy spat, "A stupid, worthless, _freak!_ "

Forcing himself to sit up, he glared at him, "No! I'm not!"

"Then prove it!"

Sherlock scowled, blinking back the tears, and allowed himself to take in everything about the grinning teen in front of him, blocking out his 'friends' taunts and jeers and _laughs_.

"... Your girlfriend's cheating on you".

 _Silence_.

The boy stared at him, grin wiped straight off his face.

"... What did you just say?"

He pushed himself to his feet, straightening his jacket.

"Your girlfriend" He repeated, "She's cheating on you. With..."

His gaze drifted past to land on the palest of the group, "Him".

The boy immediately spun around to face his so-called friend, "Is this true?"

He laughed nervously, "What? Bro, of course not. The stupid freak's only trying to cause trouble!"

"And she's about to break up with you _for_ him" Sherlock continued, hating himself for not shutting up, "Also your little sister isn't as innocent as you think she is. In any sense of the word. In fact, I'd even go as far to say that she's... shall we say... _well acquainted_ with the majority of the football team. And your father's an alcohol. And he doesn't love your mother, he only stays for you and your sister's sake. And your mother hates being tied down by you. And-"

He was reeling back by a sharp right-hook, and found himself sprawling back against the metal lockers, suddenly rather dizzy.

The teen glared and spat at him, "You know _nothing_ about my family, _freak_... Come on guys, let's get out of here".

It was 10 minutes later before he managed to stumble outside with a split lip, a bruised eye, and an obvious limp.

Walking past Mycroft, he ignored his brother's shocked and questioning gaze, and flung himself into the back of his car.

 _Why did he always have to say the wrong things?!_

* * *

He was 13-years-old when he first came across the word 'sociopath'.

It was in history class, one of his Year 13 subject choices, and his teacher had just started discussing World War 2 and its most prominent figures.

And who a more famous man than the one who had started it all.

Adolf Hitler.

Charismatic, highly intelligent, and confident, but also manipulative, egocentric, and apathetic.

A sociopath.

And when the inevitable debate of _how evil was he really?_ occurred, and the teacher asked Sherlock for his opinion, an opinion that he almost-immediately realised was considered unacceptable because _"while I do not condone what he did, sir, I can easily understand_ why _he did it"_ resulted in the 'freak' taunts increasing by tenfold, he decided that, perhaps, there was more to this 'sociopath' thing that just a simple definition.

So he went home.

He did his homework.

He had dinner.

And then he left for the town library.

Hours upon hours upon _hours_ he spent between ever-growing stacks of books, reading everything he could get his hands on about psychology, sociology, and the dreaded word itself, poured over medical journals as thick as his arm, psychiatric reports by the doctors of Ted Bundy, Jeffrey Dahmer, and Diane Downs, and reports dating back as far as 1792, as he attempted to find answers, to find cures, to find out _just_ _what the hell is wrong with me?!_

He didn't realise how many hours, exactly, he'd been searching, until suddenly his book was slammed shut and he was pulled into a tight hug from behind.

" _Sherlock, you've had us so worried!_ "

He frowned, twisting around in his brother's embrace, "Mycroft? What are you doing here?"

The older Holmes, having only just recently turned twenty, pulled back with a sharp glare, "What am I doing here? _What am I doing here?!_ Sherlock, you've been _missing_ for _three_ _days!_ "

"... Missing?"

"Yes!" He snapped, dragging the younger to his feet, "You came home Tuesday night, and then Mummy got a call from the school on Wednesday asking where you were. When she couldn't find you, she called me. When neither of us knew where you were, she called the police-"

" _The police?!_ "

"Sherlock-"

"No, My, don't ' _Sherlock_ ' me, you know how useless the police are! You might as well have sent a pack of monkeys after me!"

Mycroft took a deep breath but couldn't hold back a small smile at the sense of relief that washed over him.

 _He was okay._

Gaze drifting past his brother's shoulder, his eyes landed on a six-inch-thick medical journal written on 'The Science behind Sociopathy'.

"Sherlock..." He began cautiously, "What have you been doing?"

"Nothing!" came the too quick reply, and then suddenly piercing grey eyes were staring into his own, "Sherlock".

"Mycroft".

" _Sherlock_ ".

He groaned, "It's nothing, okay! I was just... you know... doing a bit of self-discovery".

"By reading about the most famous sociopaths from the past two centuries?"

"... Mycroft?"

He glanced down only to find shy eyes avoiding his gaze.

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"Am I... Am I a freak?"

His voice was so small, so _unsure_ , that it broke his brother's heart, and he found himself recalling all the split lips and broken bones that he'd never gotten answers for.

"... No, Sherlock" He eventually replied, gathering the small boy back in his arms, "You may be many things... but a freak most _certainly_ isn't one of them".

And if later that night, after Mycroft brought him home, after the police were called off, after Mummy simultaneously screamed at him in anger and cried tears of joy, he went up to his room, bone-tired, and found a book labelled _'Wolfgang, Einstein, and Da Vinci, the Great Outcasted Geniuses'_ , well, it was most definitely just a coincidence.

Mycroft was always giving him random presents, after all.

* * *

He was 15-years-old when it all suddenly became too much.

Thanks to his capacity for noting both the obvious, _and_ the subtle, he knew just where to meet the particularly shading-looking teenager for the means to an end.

The boy hadn't even asked for ID, and the £100 note given as a birthday present from Uncle Ruddy had taken him surprisingly far.

 _I give a good deal to newcomers_ , the teen had told him, _to keep them coming back for more_.

He smirked in irony.

He wouldn't be going back for more.

So, here he was, sitting in the bathroom of the large and _empty_ family mansion, feeling strangely apathetic about the whole thing, staring at the small bunch of pills in his hands.

 _Compressed heroin powder_ , he'd been told, _easier to take if you know what I mean_.

Taking a deep breath, Sherlock raised his hand to his mouth, and swallowed, snide comments of 'freak' and 'stupid' and 'worthless' playing on repeat in his head.

He started feeling the effects almost immediately, as his breathing hitched and his mind got fuzzy, and he was distantly aware of falling back and hitting his head off something sharp.

 _Oh well_ , he decided, vision fading to black, _at least Mycroft won't have to worry about me anymore._

* * *

He was 15-years-and-four-days-old when he saw Mycroft cry for the first, and only, time.

Waking up in a brightly-lit and sterilised room hadn't been much fun, as all his senses slowly came back to him one by one, forcefully dragging him back from the warm embrace he'd laid in.

Blinking, he stared up at the white ceiling tiles, confused.

 _Why was he in hospital?_

"Sherlock?"

He slowly turned only to find his brother sitting next to him in an uncomfortable plastic chair.

"... My?"

His voice was rough, brittle, and he coughed immediately after.

His entire body felt just as sluggish.

"Here" and then suddenly there was cool water being pressed against his mouth.

Finishing the cup, he wondered vaguely why Mycroft's hands were shaking.

"Better?"

He nodded.

"Liar".

Sherlock frowned, and his brother took a deep breath, "Sorry, sorry, I- Sorry".

Now he _definitely_ knew something was wrong.

Mycroft _never_ apologised.

Turning to face him, he stared as the man rubbed his hands over his face, eyes distinctively red.

"God, _Sherlock_ " His voice broke, "... You _died_ , Sherlock. Your heart _stopped_ for _eight fucking minutes_. Do you have _any_ idea what that was-"

He cut himself off by taking a deep breath.

"... _Why?_ " Mycroft finally asked, "Why did you... Why didn't you _tell_ me? Why couldn't you- What could have _possibly_ made that your _only option?_ "

Sherlock stared at him blankly, brain scrambling for an answer to a question his mind was too heavy to understand.

The elder Holmes gave a brittle laugh, "Oh, of course, the morphine... You probably aren't processing a thing I'm saying".

He frowned once more, struggling to understand what his brother was so upset about.

"Just... Just promise me something, Sherlock. Can you do that?"

He slowly nodded, and Mycroft gave a small smile, leaning forwards to take his hand into his own, "... Promise me that you'll never do this again".

"I prom'se" He slurred, understanding that whatever it was he did, had to have been bad to cause Mycroft to cry like that.

Silently, he made another promise to himself in that moment.

He would never be the cause for his brother's tears again.

* * *

He was 29-years-old when he told the man who'd changed his life the truth.

"It's a drugs bust".

John laughed, "Seriously?! This guy? A junkie?! Have you met him?"

Lestrade gave him a questioning look, but Sherlock ignored it.

"I'm pretty sure you could search this flat all day and you wouldn't find anything you call 'recreational'" John continued and-

Oh. Maybe he should put a stop to this.

He discreetly gave the soldier a quietening look.

"Yea, but come on-"

Another scowl.

John stared, "... No".

"What?"

Disappointment, disapproval, _disgust_.

Sherlock glared, "Shut up!"

And that had been that.

It was many hours later, days even, after the case had been solved and the murderer apprehended as the pair sat in their trademark armchairs with tea and biscuits, that Sherlock finally told him.

"I intentionally overdosed on heroin when I was 15".

John choked, spitting out his tea as his entire body jerked around to face him, " _WHAT?!_ "

"I intentionally overdosed on-"

"No, no! Sherlock! I _heard_ you, I just-"

"Then why ask me to repeat myself?" came the level response, and John stared at him in shock, "... You OD'd when you were just 15-years-old?"

"Yes. That was my... _first_ _introduction_ to drugs, I suppose you'd call it".

"As in... it was a suicide attempt?"

"Yes".

"... Can I ask why?"

"I..." He carefully took a sip of tea, staring resolutely into the fireplace, "... I've always been like this, John. This... This intelligent. Making deductions. Pointing things out that people didn't want to see... Now, of course, I understand it for what it is, but back then... I didn't know what was wrong with me2.

He blanched, "What? Sherlock, _no_ , nothing's- nothing's _wrong_ with you-"

"I know" He interrupted quickly, "I _know_ that now. I know that I'm... that I'm _different_ , but not a _mistake_ , not- not _worthless_ , not _stupid_ , not a- a- _a freak!_ "

Silence.

He continued to stare at the flames, expressionless, while John stared at him in horror.

"... Is that what they used to call you, then?" He eventually asked, voice taught with anger, "A freak?"

The resulting flinch was the only answer he needed.

The solider slowly nodded, "Alright... Alright, then, you... you overdosed as a teenager because of moronic idiots who didn't see your gift for what it was. Just that. A _gift_ , Sherlock, do you hear me?"

He slowly nodded, carefully placing down the tea cup as it began to rattle in his tight grip.

"Is that... Is that why Greg did the drugs bust, then? Did he think... well... that you were-?"

"No" Sherlock replied definitely, "No, that truly was just an excuse for him to be here... Mycroft, however-"

"Hang on, Mycroft? Your brother? What has he got to do with this?"

The younger man watched as the fire flickered, the flames reflecting in his eyes, "... He was the one who found me, you know. Back when I... when I overdosed... I don't think he ever forgave himself for not seeing the signs, and I... I never forgave myself for making me have to... He sends Lestrade in every so often under the pretence of a drugs bust, just to make sure that I am, in fact, still clean".

John studied him closely, "... Did you ever tell him why? Why you..."

"... I told him half of the truth" He admitted, "The fact I was being bullied mercilessly, that I hated myself for being different... but never the details. To be honest, I actually feared what he would do, should he have found out. Especially the... especially with the names they called me".

John slowly nodded, understanding, and vowed to never let this seemingly-emotionless man go through that again, not when it was just down to him and Mycroft Holmes.

* * *

He was 29-years-and-3-weeks-old when he saw John angry, _really_ angry, for the first time.

It was during a case, a double murder, as they came onto the crime scene.

An offhand remark by Donovan as they pushed past had caused Sherlock to respond in the usual fashion, managing to insult both her _and_ Anderson as they arrived at the body, an insult that the infamous pathologist heard, and reacted to.

"Oh _please_ , freak, as if you-"

The words were no sooner out of his mouth than John Watson had stepped forwards, fist swinging.

Anderson had staggered back a good three feet before collapsing to the ground, vision blurry and head reeling under the force of the blow.

Everyone stared at John.

John stared back at them defiantly, before slowly, predatorily, stalking towards the grounded pathologist, strangely satisfied with the flinch he got in return.

" _Don't. Call. Him. That_ " He said quietly, voice so full of threat and menace it had even Lestrade shivering, "Do you understand?"

Anderson quickly nodded in response, and Sherlock couldn't help but smile smugly as the doctor, _his_ doctor, turned back to face him.

Based on the soft smile the man gave back to him, they were both thinking along the same lines.

Based on Lestrade's reluctant nod in the soldier's direction, he respected him as a result.

And based on the shrinking back of the other officers as John walked back to stand at his flatmate's side, the message had been received loud and clear.

* * *

Sherlock Holmes was never called a Freak again.


	12. Vampyre

Come on people, I'm running out of **requests!**

Rachel :P

* * *

 **Chapter 12: Vampyre**

There were many strange things about one Sherlock Holmes, John had quickly noticed only minutes after moving in.

He played violin at odd hours, went days without talking and then mere seconds rambling fast enough to lose his breath, and kept numerous body parts in the fridge on the shelf above the milk.

When they ended up in the creaking house with the women in the pink coat, nothing changed, and John observed the genius's bickering with Donovan, grudging respect for Lestrade, and angry muttering about the 'incompetent' forensic scientists in silence.

And then there was Anderson.

If John had to name a single person that annoyed him, that disgusted him, that _repulsed_ him the most in this world, it would be Anderson.

It quickly became apparent that Sherlock was of the same mindset as him in that regard, and while the detective threw just as many cruel insults and callous remarks in the older man's direction, he also seemed to act just that little bit... _different_ around him, and _only_ around him too.

John watched from afar at first, as Sherlock did the most peculiar things, such as carefully avoiding sunlight and almost _gliding_ everywhere he walked, while Donavon looked confused and Lestrade bit back grins.

* * *

It wasn't until their sixth case together that he finally asked just what the hell was going on.

* * *

"Well that's simple" Sherlock had said, flashing him a blinding white grin, "Anderson believes in vampires".

That had only made him even more confused.

"Okay..." He replied slowly, "But what has that got to do with-"

"He believes in _vampires_ , John! And he's _terrified_ of them".

"... And?"

The younger man had huffed and rolled his eyes, "And Lestrade and I have a bet going. I'm pretending to be a vampire. He doesn't think Anderson will crack but I, on the hand..."

"Think he will" John had finished, a smile slowly spreading across his face.

He wasn't a superstitious man, of course, but he could see where Sherlock was coming from.

High intelligence, the little need for sleep, and a fascination with dead bodies...

Yea.

He could see the 'vampire' in the younger Holmes.

"... Alright. I'm in. What's the wager?"

"One pound for every week Anderson remains sane. I can't be too obvious, of course, and I can't say the word 'vampire' or anything similar to it, or I'll automatically lose, but if I get him to crack by more... subtle ways, shall we say, then I win. Currently we're on... oh, I'd say just over £200".

"So whoever loses, will also lose a lot of money" John had replied carefully, "... I'm going to make sure we win this bet, Sherlock. And we're going to win it soon".

* * *

They schemed for the rest of the night and set their plan in motion the very next day.

* * *

A triple homicide, Sherlock was in heaven.

Sauntering onto the scene, John half-jogged behind him to try and catch up as the detective made his way over the body of a young man, not much older than he was himself.

"Cause of death?"

John crouched down next to the body, ignoring Anderson's annoyed grumbling next to him and instead focusing on the blood clotting the man's hair.

And on the lack of blood surrounding the body.

"Blunt force trauma to the back of the skull" He replied, "But he wasn't killed here".

"I thought as much" Sherlock muttered, eyes flicking over the face-down figure with interest, "Clearly premediated, though a lot messier than the previous two... I need to talk to Lestrade".

Spinning on the spot, coat billowing out behind him, John only just about managed to lunge at the man and grab his arm mere seconds before he marched away.

"Sherlock, be careful!" He hissed, voice carefully measured so only themselves and Anderson could here.

The detective rolled his eyes, "Of what? Clearly the murderer left immediately after killing the man!"

John pursed his lips, half for a show and half to stop himself from laughing as the forensic scientist leant forwards with interest, and pointing at the pale stretch of sunlight that Sherlock had been walking towards.

"The sun".

The man blinked, "Oh... yes... the sun".

"Mind yourself, would you?" John said, letting go of his arm as Anderson seemed to pale from what he could see out of the corner of his eye.

"What would I do without you?"

"Disintegrate, probably" He replied cheerfully, "Now go on, I want to get out of here so speak to Lestrade quickly, would you?"

Sherlock nodded once, before continuing on back towards the entrance of the alley, carefully avoiding any patch of sunlight along the way.

Turning back to the body, the ex-soldier bit back a smile as Anderson stared after the detective with a slightly worried expression on his face.

* * *

Another murderer, another body, another ungodly hour.

John was woken by a loud banging on the flat door and groaned, rolling over to check the time.

It was just gone 4am.

 _Great_.

Dragging himself out of bed, he threw on an old jumper and yesterday's jeans before wandering out into the sitting room, just as Sherlock called out "It's open!" and Lestrade, Donavon, and Anderson walked in, all in various stages of exhaustion.

The genius himself, however, was sitting in his armchair, sipping tea while reading yesterday's newspaper, as bright and bushy tailed as ever.

Immediately, he stood up and smirked, "Out of your depth, as usual I presume?"

Anderson's eyes narrowed suspiciously, "Why weren't you asleep?"

"I _don't_ sleep, idiot" came the snappish reply, and Lestrade sighed, "Look, guys, I'm too tired to be dealing with your bickering right now. Sherlock, get dressed, we've got a corpse in the river Thames and no idea who put it there".

It took him mere seconds to change, and when he remerged from his room, he immediately walked over to John.

"Do they match?"

If they hadn't practiced this exact moment a hundred times, he would've been completely stumped as to what the man was going on about.

But because they had prepared, John merely blinked and looked him up and down, "Yea. Your clothes are alright".

Sherlock frowned and glanced down at his dark red shirt, "Are you sure?"

Anderson groaned, "Oh my god, just go look in the bloody mirror!"

"I wouldn't see myself, moron".

"Because it's dark? Then turn the damn lights on!"

Sherlock and John both turned to him, the former looked the most insulted they had ever seen him and the later doing his best to pull a 'hey! watch it, mate' look on his face.

Anderson frowned, confused, as Sherlock replied tightly, " _That wouldn't make_ _any difference!_ "

John put a hand on his arm to calm him, "He's not worth it. Now come on, do you want to solve this murder or not?"

And if later on, standing by the river as the bloated body was hauled onto the bank, Sherlock loudly announced he was thirsty and dragged John away from prying eyes?

Maybe John was thirsty too.

And if they returned shortly, with John sporting a dazed smile on his face and Sherlock's scarf covering his neck?

Maybe they'd done _more_ than just get a drink.

And if Anderson caught of glimpse of the ex-soldier's neck in the pale sunlight half an hour later, only to find two strangely-circular marks marring the once unblemished skin?

Well.

He refused to admit that it made his heart beat faster and a cold sweat break out underneath the scene suit.

* * *

A second so-called 'drowning' a few days later, had the police bursting back into 221B at a much more reasonable hour as the John just finished his lunch.

Those same officers all came to an abrupt stop when they saw just who, or rather what, was joining the man for lunch.

"Is that... Is that a _bat?!_ "

John glanced up at them, and idly patted the furry creature resting on his shoulder, "Yes. He is. Can I help you?"

Lestrade slowly blinked as Donavon frowned and Anderson glanced around the flat cautiously.

"Another body's been found... Where's Sherlock?"

"Sherlock?" He asked, surprised, "He's right he-"

The bat screeched loudly and John winced, "... I'll just go get him for you".

Standing up, he carried the small creature to Sherlock's room, carefully placing him on the bed inside, winking at the detective that stood by the window, before returning to the sitting room, secretly smirking when he caught Anderson staring at the blood vials on the kitchen worktop in horror.

"He'll be out in a minute" John explained, walking over to the couch and picking up the long cloak that was draped over it, "Sorry for the mess, I'll just put this away".

It took only a few seconds for Anderson to recognise it for what it was.

"Hang on! Is that- is that- is that a _cape_ -"

"Another body found, you said?" Sherlock interrupted smoothly, gliding from his room fully dressed, and the forensic scientist blinked in confused, looking between him and the now-closed bedroom door and then back at John who had placed the cape out of sight in his own room.

Lestrade sighed, fighting back a smile as he realised what they were up to, and nodded, "Yea. Found in the Thames, same place, same murder weapon..."

* * *

 _That_ particular case took longer than expected, and it was many _many_ hours later as they sat in the police station getting debriefed, that Anderson came in and reluctantly announced that Lestrade sent him to ask what they wanted to eat.

Sherlock and John smirked at each other.

Oh this one was too easy.

"Got anything with meat in it?" the genius asked innocently, and the man slowly nodded, "Yea. I think we've got beef somewhere..."

"I'd like it rare" He replied, "Very rare. In fact, you know what? Don't spend any more than five minutes cooking it. Oh, and make sure there's no garlic".

Anderson stared at him, "... Why no garlic?"

"I'm allergic" Sherlock replied simply, and John quickly coughed to cover up his snort of laughter.

* * *

Signing out at the desk a few hours later, John's arm was caught as he turned to leave.

"Can I ask you something?"

Anderson stood next to him, looking decidedly nervous, and he quickly schooled his features into casual friendliness, "Sure. Is it about the case?"

"Ah... no. No, it's... it's actually about Sherlock" came the hesitant reply as the forensic scientist scratched the back of his neck awkwardly, "... How, exactly, did he survive the fall?"

John gave him a surprised look, "The fall? You mean, you don't know?"

"Know what?"

"That he's a-" He purposefully cut himself off, and relished in the way Anderson leant even closer as a result, "He's a...?"

"... It's not my place to say" He finally admitted, "If you really want to know... you'll have to ask Sherlock himself".

The man immediately deflated, and John's grin was genuine as he patted him on the shoulder consolingly, "But hey, look on the bright side! Sherlock's going to be around for a long _long_ time, so you literally have... well... _an eternity_ to ask him!"

* * *

It was exactly 7 months 2 weeks and 4 days after John joined the bet, that they finally made Anderson crack.

Sherlock had been getting restless, getting _bored_ with the subtle ways they'd been making the man slowly lose his mind, and had declared they needed to do something drastic.

And what a better time to do it that on Halloween night?

" _Ow_ " Sherlock whined, rubbing his jaw, and John sighed loudly, "I told you to go last week, Sherlock, so you have no one to blame here but yourself!"

"But it hurts!" He pouted, "I forgot how sore they were..."

Lestrade frowned, concerned, "Did you get injured on a case?"

"Not even close" John replied smirking, "The genius over here, has a _tooth ache_ ".

"Stop mocking me!" He complained, and from below them, Anderson rolled his eyes, "Then stop talking! You're making it difficult for me to work!"

"Well that shouldn't be too hard, considering you never work anyway!" came the snappish reply, and the older man glared, standing up from his crouch over the body, "Says the man with a made-up job title!"

"Says the _idiot_ that would probably lose his job if it weren't for my help using that title!"

John quickly stepped between them, "Guys, come on, calm down".

"No!" Sherlock snapped, "That _moron_ thinks he can just walk all over me-"

"Oh, I'm sorry, but doesn't everyone?!"

"One more word Anderson and I swear-"

"You swear what? That you'll set your _guard dog_ on me?" He mocked, "Watson is nothing but a side piece! Something for you to flaunt, to show off, to _use_ -"

* * *

Then it all happened very quickly.

The genius lurched forwards, flinging himself at the man with a loud snarl just as John managed to grab his arm to pull him back, and Anderson froze, shocked into place as-

Sherlock's open mouth stopped mere inches from his neck, as two pearly-white fangs gleamed under the streetlights.

* * *

"That is _enough!_ " John hissed, "Sherlock, put those away, _now!_ We've talked about this!"

The detective gave a feral grin and licked his lips, "Not even just a _little_ taste?"

Anderson squeaked in fear, and Lestrade sighed, already pulling out his wallet.

"No!" John snapped, "Fangs. Gone. _Now_ ".

The detective sighed and obeyed, shutting his mouth as he leant back, and stared the forensic scientist in the eye, daring him to move.

And when he did, it was just as dramatically as he hoped.

"You're a- a- a-" Anderson stammered, stumbling backwards as he paled dangerously, "... a vampire".

"About time you caught on, _food_ ".

He lasted all of two seconds, before turning on the spot, and running to his car screaming.

* * *

Grinning, John turned to face an exasperated Gregory Lestrade, "That'll be £231, when you're ready".

He reluctantly handed it over, "Do me a favour, yea?"

"What is it?"

The inspector scowled at him, "Remind me never to bet against you two again".


	13. Venus Fly Trap

Requested by: Guest

Rachel :)

* * *

 **Chapter 13: Venus Fly Trap**

Sherlock was _bored_.

There hadn't been any new cases for _weeks_ and John was always working at the clinic leaving him alone to his own devices in the flat for _days_ on end, and he didn't even have his chemistry set to play with after he _accidently_ burned down the fridge by throwing an unknown chemical at the head inside it.

 _God_ , was he bored.

Sighing for the umpteenth time that hour, he heard John groan from across the room and put down his newspaper.

"What is it _now_ , Sherlock?"

"I'm _booorreeeddd!_ " He whined, tossing and turning on the narrow couch until he rolled over to face the doctor, flipping his dressing gown over to cover bare feet.

John rolled his eyes exasperatedly, "I _know_ that, you brat! So go do something about it!"

"Like what?" He pouted, "You took away my body parts! And my equipment. And my chemicals. And my-"

"You almost _blew up_ our _kitchen!_ " He exclaimed, "And until you're in a less-reckless mood, I'm not giving you back your chemistry sets!"

"But there's nothing else to do!"

"Then just... here, read the newspaper".

"Already read it".

"Then read a book".

"I've read all of those too".

"Then reread them!"

Sherlock let out a dramatic huff, "Why would I bother _rereading_ them when I've already _memorised_ everything in _them!_ "

John pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes, willing himself not to kill the genius with his bare hands there and then.

"Then why don't you pay Mrs. Hudson a visit? She'd enjoy that, you know".

"She left for her sisters four hours ago".

He frowned, "Four hours ago? But that was- Sherlock what on earth were you doing up at 4am?!"

"Well, being _bored_ , obviously!"

"Then catch up on sleep! Or watch TV! Or- Or- Or I don't know, but do something! You're bloody unbearable when you're like this!" He snapped, before suddenly standing up, "Now, I'm going to work. Feel free to do the grocery shopping".

Sherlock scoffed and rolled back over, turning his back to the doctor.

Grocery shopping, honestly, how _boring!_

* * *

It was an entire week later before he suddenly became decidedly and irreparably _un-bored_.

Hearing a knock on his door, Sherlock frowned and checked the time.

John would be half-way through his morning shift by now, and neither Mrs. Hudson nor Lestrade ever knocked, and his brother didn't have so heavy a rap-rap-rap. Which could only mean one thing.

 _A client._

Quickly jumping up, he walked over and pulled the door open, the build-up of excitement and anticipation and _oh my god finally!_ abruptly coming to a halt when he realised it was only the postman.

The postman with a rather later parcel in his hands.

Sighing, he gave the man an irritated look before reluctantly signing for the package, commenting on his affair with the gardener, and promptly slamming the door shut as the man attempted to take a furious swing at him.

Trudging over to his favourite armchair, he curled up impossibly small, and stared at the brown-papered box in his hands. The writing was non-descript and unfamiliar, only stating his name and address, and there were no other significant markings on the parcel.

A mysterious present from an unknown admirer, perhaps?

Cautiously reaching out as the excitement once more built up to a crescendo, he pulled the rope keeping the box together, and let the packaging fall apart in his lap.

* * *

It was a fly trap.

A Venus fly trap.

Dionaea muscipula B-52 Venus fly trap, in fact.

* * *

Sherlock frowned at the pre-potted plant in confusion.

He had done his fair share of botany over the years and knew quite a number of facts about this particular species.

The largest of Venus fly trap family, it had traps surpassing two inches in length and grew in large batches, maximising food intake. It had bright red interiors and a green outside, with short petioles. It also required a lot of light and water, but could survive up to 3 months without food, and live for over 15 years.

And if Sherlock was being particularly honest with himself, he had always held a certain kind of _fascination_ with the carnivorous breed.

But that still didn't explain who had sent it.

Or _why_.

* * *

When John returned home that night, well after six, he found the genius in the same position, long fingers clasped under his chin and eyes narrowed intensely at the harmless-looking plant.

He stared.

"... What is that?"

"It's a _who_ , John, not a _what_ ".

"... Explain".

Sherlock sighed and finally looked up at him, "His name is Isambard. Isambard Kingdom Brunel. And he's a Venus fly trap".

The doctor stared at him for another minute, before taking a deep breath, dropping his bag, and walking over to his armchair.

"And where did it-"

"He, John! Isambard!"

"Where did _he_ come from?"

The genius blinked, "Well I didn't order him".

"Where did you find him, then?"

"... He was delivered to me. By post. I don't know who sent him".

John raised an eyebrow at him, "Delivered? By post? A _Venus fly trap?_ "

"Isambard!"

"Isambard? What the hell is an Isambard?"

"It's his _name_ , John! Weren't you _listening?!_ "

He groaned, "God help me, I think I liked you better when you were bored".

"Well now I'm _not_ bored, and he _at least_ deserves _name!_ "

Another raised eyebrow, "And you chose _Isambard?_ "

"Yes. After Isambard Kingdom Brunel".

John stared back an him blankly, and Sherlock sighed over-dramatically, "The Victorian engineer? The man behind the Greta Western Railways? _That_ Isambard?"

"... Nope. Never heard of him".

"I'm surrounded by idiots!" came the snide reply, before he returned his gaze to the plant, "I'll be needing my UV lamp back".

"Why?" He asked suspiciously.

"Because Isambard needs at least 8 hours of sunlight a day, and he's not going to get that on a dreary London windowsill, now is he?" He snapped, "And I'll need to buy flies. A pet shop, should do... And maybe some peat, Isambard prefers acidic soil and this is mildly alkaline at best... Oh, and I'll need to find a bigger pot to give his roots plenty of space... And I'll play my violin for him, studies show plants grow better with classical music... And I'll also-"

* * *

John couldn't help but smile at the genius's rambling as he stood up to make himself some tea.

Sherlock was already rather fond of the fly trap, and he could easily see it becoming his new pet project, something to keep him far away from boredom and out of that depressive moody slump he'd been in recently.

Turning on the kettle, the doctor smirked, pulling the garden-centre receipt from his pocket and binning it.

A job well done, he believed.


	14. Cherrystick

Requested by: mariott

Rachel :)

* * *

 **Chapter 14: Cherrystick**

He was fighting with John.

How was _he_ meant to know he shouldn't drink directly from the milk carton? Or that he'd actually been _told_ not to do so many times? It wasn't _his_ fault! And so, as an act of rebellion, he took Molly with him to the next crime scene, not that the doctor minded much considering the long shifts he was currently pulling down at the clinic, but _still_.

Sherlock liked to think that he'd won.

* * *

"I still don't understand what we're doing here" the pathologist admitted, struggling to keep up the quick-pace the detective set, taking the stairs two at a time.

"It's a stakeout" He replied, rolling his eyes as he knelt down to pick the lock on the roof door, "I told you we need to wait for the man to leave before following him. We can't just burst in there with guns blazing!"

"Well maybe if you actually _had_ a gun..." She mumbled, panting as she reached the top step, and ignoring the dark look he shot her way in return.

"And why couldn't you have taken John with you?"

" _Because_ , Molly, we're _fighting!_ " He snapped, finally standing up and turning the door knob, smirking when it opened with a single push.

"So why pick me, then? Why not Lestrade or... I don't know! You _have_ to know more people than just John and the police!"

"I do" He replied simply, stepping out into the cool night air, "But none that I consider my friends".

Molly paused, feeling her heart tighten painfully in her chest at the admission, before quickly jogging after him as the billowing coat disappeared around the side of the door.

* * *

When she finally did find him on the dark roof, she huffed annoyed, and collapsed down next to him.

"So, what, we just sit and wait?"

"Essentially, yes" He replied, struggling with the zips on the backpack she'd failed to notice him carrying.

"Essentially?" Molly questioned, reaching across to take it from him and open it herself, "Why essentially?"

Sherlock frowned, the dim streetlights below highlighting the subsequent wrinkles that formed on his forehead, "Well... I understand that it's socially unacceptable not to... _converse_... with company".

She blinked, "... You want to _talk?_ "

He shrugged, ducking his head as he pulled out various cartons from within the bag, "We're going to be here for a while... Do _you_ wish to talk?"

She couldn't help but smile at his awkward attempt of avoiding her question, "We can talk if you want to, Sherlock".

"Your words, not mine".

"Alright then. What do you want to talk about?"

"You're the one who wanted to talk, not me, so you should-"

She sighed, cutting off his rambling speech, "Just... how about you start with telling me what all these cartons are for?"

Sherlock blinked and glanced down at the dozen or so containers he'd automatically pulled out of the backpack, "Oh... well... it's dinner, obviously".

"... Dinner?"

He nodded, and she raised an eyebrow at him, becoming more and more suspicious by the second, "And what, pray tell, are we having for dinner? Ignoring the fact, of course, that you struggle to remember what food actually is, let alone consume it willingly".

He shifted on the uncomfortable tarmacked roof, "I just... I thought you might be hungry. You usually have finished eating by now, so..."

"Sherlock, what's in the containers?"

He glanced over at her, the deep flush visible even under such a dim light, "... Everything".

"Everything?"

"That I thought you like".

Molly stared at him.

He avoided her gaze.

"... Okay then" She eventually said, trying not to laugh at the absurdity of the situation, "What's in carton number one?"

He held it up for her to see, and she blinked in surprise.

"Cherries?!"

"Do you... not like cherries?"

"I love cherries!" She exclaimed, happily pulling off the plastic lid, "How did you know?"

"I... may have seen you eating them occasionally".

She levelled him with a dry look, but didn't press the matter any further.

"So, come on, who's this guy that we're tracking, anyway?" Molly asked a few minuets later, and Sherlock gestured at the building directly across from them, "A suspected drug dealer. A suspected _large_ drug dealer. Word has it that he's making a sale in that warehouse as we speak, and Lestrade wanted me to check it out to make sure".

"And then... what? Call in backup?" She questioned, sucking on a cherry pit, and he nodded, "Exactly. I said I'd text him as soon as this guy leaves... A rather dull case, I must admit, but John threatened to shoot me if I didn't accept. Apparently, I'm not very good company when I'm bored".

"You don't say" She remarked, smirking, and he turned to her, an angry retort on the tongue before-

* * *

Molly pulled a perfectly made knot out of her mouth.

* * *

Sherlock stared, fascinated.

She frowned.

"Hey, you alright?"

He slowly reached forwards and took the cherry stem from her hands, "... Did you do this?"

"Uh... yea?"

"... _How?!_ "

Molly reeled back from the sheer intensity of his gaze and floundered for words.

"I... I, ah... I did it... with my... my mouth?"

Sherlock's gaze snapped back to the knot, "... Do it again".

"What?"

"Do it again!"

She slowly reached forwards and picked up another cherry, beyond confused, and placed it in her mouth.

Half a minute later, she pulled back out the stem, only for it to once more be tied in a perfect knot.

He lunged forwards, grabbing it and holding it up to inspect under a better light.

"What is this? How'd you do this?"

She shrugged sheepishly, "I can tie a knot into a cherrystick with my tongue".

Sherlock frowned, turning to her, "But how?!"

"I don't know, I guess... I've always been able to do it? I don't really think about it" She admitted, before suddenly reaching down and handing him a cherry, "Try it".

* * *

It was 13 minutes and 7 cherries later before he gave up, and he angrily spat out the straight stem and tossed it over the edge of the roof.

" _How?!_ "

Molly couldn't help but laugh at his furious expression, and her laughter only increased when his glare turned to a pout at her ridicule.

"It's okay, Sherlock, it's not exactly an easy thing to do".

"So how do _you_ do it?"

She decided to let the insult slide.

"Here, come on, let me show you" the pathologist said instead, handing him another cherry while she caught another one in her mouth, "You just have to eat the fruit part, obviously, and spit out the seed, and then... press the stem to the roof of your mouth, bite down until both ends cross over each other, and then push one end through the other... there!"

She proudly pulled the knotted stem from her mouth, while Sherlock stared on in equal parts confusion and awe, before glancing down at his own stem dubiously.

"Go on" She encouraged, "As you said, we'll be here a while anyway".

He reluctantly tried, and failed, once more.

Molly frowned, "Oh... well, maybe it'll just take a lot of practice".

"But I want to be able to do it _now!_ " He whined, causing her to laugh once more, and he couldn't help but smile, eyes crinkling at the edges.

"Well there's no other way I can teach you" She replied, grinning, and his breath hitched even as he leant closer, "Isn't there?"

She swallowed thickly, suddenly nervously, "Well... I mean... I could always... show you with-"

"Yes?"

Her eyes searched his face as he came impossibly close.

"... with my tongue".

Sherlock grinned, slow and assured, warm breath ghosting over her face, "I think... that's the best idea you've had all evening".

Molly's eyes fluttered close as he finally sealed the distance between them, pulling him even closer with hands running through his hair, and she grinned into the kiss.

He tasted like cherries.

They were definitely her new favourite fruit.


	15. The Flu

Requested by: Sherlock Harry Winchester

Rachel :)

* * *

 **Chapter 15: The Flu**

John frowned and glanced down at his watch.

It was well past twelve, usually Sherlock was up by now...

Sighing, he put down his newspaper and stood up, putting his empty tea cup in the sink as he passed.

Stopping outside the bedroom door, he paused briefly, before knocking, "Sherlock? You up yet?"

Silence.

He knocked harder.

Still nothing.

His frown only deepened, and with bated breath, he reached forwards and pushed open the door.

* * *

Inside, there was only darkness, and John stumbled and cursed his way to the window to yank back the curtains. Turning back around, he spied the heavily covered lump in the middle of the bed, invisible under layers and layers and _layers_ of blankets.

* * *

"Sherlock?"

The lump shivered.

 _Well that wasn't good._

Cautiously walking over, he hovered next to the bed and reached out, patting the lump unsurely, "You getting up?"

He got a groan in response and frowned, "Hey, Sherlock, are you alright?"

The bundle in the middle of the bed shivered once more.

 _Now he was really worried._

Sitting down at the edge of the bed, he pulled back the covers until a messy head of black curls appeared, and red-rimmed eyes blinked blearily up at him, skin ashen and paler than death.

 _Well fuck._

"John?" He mumbled, "Wha' 're you doin'?"

"Time to get up, sleepy head" He said fondly, "You feeling alright?"

"M'fine, jus'... jus' tired, 'ats all".

"Mhm" He hummed, "You know, somehow, I don't believe you".

The genius tried to drag the quilt back over his head, but John refused to let go, "Sherlock, you're sick".

"No 'm not, go away".

"Yes. You are" He replied firmly, though he couldn't keep the amused smile off his face, "Now come on, you're freezing. Go for a shower, and I'll fix you up some soup or something, yea?"

"Don't wanna move".

"I know" He sighed, standing up, "But you're going to have to anyway".

"No! Go away! I don' want you fussing"

" _Sherlock_ ".

"No! M'fine!"

John pinched the bridge of his nose, "Fine then. Stay there. But I'm still making you something to eat".

"'M not hungry".

"You have to eat _something!_ "

"I'll jus' throw it up, not worth it".

"But-"

"No!"

The doctor stared at him for a minute before sighing once more and throwing his hands in the air, "Alright, alright, you don't have to eat. But you're still taking some medicine and I won't take no for an answer!"

* * *

He had only just poured the boiling water into the mug when he heard a thud next to him, and John jumped, spinning around and almost spilling the kettle all over himself only to find that Sherlock had migrated from his room, and had just collapsed on the couch.

"What are you doing out of bed?!" He demanded, marching over to the sheet-clad man who's response, most likely clever yet insulting, was muffled by the cushion he had his face pressed against.

"Sherlock, roll over, I can't hear you".

The genius did as told with some loud sniffing and dramatic huffs, "'onestly John, what're you even fussin' about-"

"Don't you 'honestly John' me, Holmes!" He snapped, "You're sick. You've got the flu. I'm only trying to help!

"Then stop fussing!"

" _You_ stop fussing!" He shot back, and the younger man squinted up at him dazedly, " _I_ am _not_ fussing, _I_ am _dying!_ "

He held out the cup in front of him, "Then shut up, and drink this!"

"Stop fussin' over me! I don't want any of your foul concoctions!"

"It's a _lemsip_ Sherlock!" He exclaimed, rolling his eyes and the man's antics, but the detective took no notice, "Johnnnn, stop motherin' me!"

"Sherlock Holmes you will drink this lemsip or so help me god I will ring Mycroft!"

The genius eyed him suspiciously, the dark look somewhat lessened by the puffy eyes and running nose, before reluctantly sitting up and taking the hot drink.

"Fine. I'll 'rink it. But _not_ 'cause you told me to!"

* * *

It was a few hours later, with Sherlock having just settled down and dozed off and John in the process of covering him up, when the door was flung open and Lestrade burst in, hurried and frazzled looking.

"Quick! Double murder and the perp has just kidnapped a third victim-"

" _Shhh!_ " John hissed at him, pulling the blanket over the sleeping genius, and Lestrade came to an abrupt stop at the sight in front of him.

Turning back to Sherlock, the doctor gently felt his forehead, frowning when he found it just as warm as when he woke the detective all those hours previous. Double checking that the blanket covered the man's entire body, and that his glass of water was full, he finally straightened up and turned to face the police officer.

Only to find Lestrade grinning at him and pointing his phone at the pair.

John narrowed his eyes at him, "You better not be taking any photos, Greg".

"Oh but you just look so _cute!_ " He replied unashamedly, "You mothering Sherlock, all domesticated like. And Sherlock himself, who'd _kill_ you if he found out, and who's... who's..."

He slowly trailed off when he saw the pile of tissues on the floor and bottle of cough medicine next to them.

"... Is he sick?"

"Yes! Now quieten down or you'll wake him!" John snapped, quickly walking over to usher the man back out of the apartment, "And he won't be able to do any cases for the next few days, so double homicide or not, just tell him you don't have anything at the moment if he asks".

Lestrade reluctantly nodded, "Sure. Tell him I hope he gets better soon, alright? And... just so you know... I sent everyone I know a copy of those pictures".

* * *

"John?"

The doctor quickly stood up and walked over as the detective called, "Yes Sherlock?"

"M'hone" He mumbled, "I 'eard m'hone... where is it?"

His phone.

 _Of course._

Huffing, John turned around and found the mobile half-buried under books on the coffee table, picking it up and handing it to the genius.

Sherlock grunted his thanks and slid it open, eyes squinting against the sudden bright light.

"... John?"

The doctor, having only just sat down more, sighed, "Yea?"

"... I've a text from Lestra'e".

"Oh, really?" He asked, picking back up the newspaper, "What does it say?"

"... Nothing" came the confused response, and John frowned, "Nothing?"

"No... it's got an attach'ent, though".

He leapt back to his feet just as the man clicked into it.

He held his breath.

"... John?"

"... Yes Sherlock?"

"When I get better, remind me to smother you in your sleep".


	16. Milk

I literally have no requests!

 **I can't update without requests, people!**

 _Requested by: princessgracethesecond_

Rachel :P

* * *

 **Chapter 16: Milk**

 _Stupid, stupid, stupid!_

John groaned as the van hid a pothole in the road and he was tossed around in the back. It had only been 15 minutes since he'd been in Tesco, once again fighting with the self-service checkout machine and cursing himself for ever storming out.

It wasn't as if Sherlock had been any worse than his usual self, after all.

It was just he hadn't slept good last night, didn't hear his alarm, was late for work, and then came home to find Sherlock still lying on the couch where he'd left him, having ignored his request to do some grocery shopping and... well... let's just say that there had been a few choice words thrown about.

But all of that over one measly litre of milk?

John regretted ever overreacting like that, because now look where it had gotten him.

Tied up.

Blindfolded.

And tossed into the back of a speeding van.

* * *

It was another 20 minutes later before the vehicle finally came to a stop, and John swore viciously as he hit his head off the metal door in the process.

He heard slamming doors, loud footsteps, and muffled voices, before suddenly the back doors were flung open and a bright light blinded him even through the cloth covering his eyes.

"Get up!"

He scrambled to do as told, not wanting any more bruises than necessary, and once on his feet, his arms were grabbed harshly and he was dragged out of the van.

"Who are you?!" He demanded as they began to pull him through an old building, an empty warehouse most likely, based on the smell of damp metal and rust.

"You don't need to know that" came the calm reply, and John struggled to place the accent.

"Stop" the same man commanded, and a split second later, a large door sung open with a _creak_ in front of him.

Next to him, the man gave him a sharp jab, "Go on. In".

He did so cautiously, and almost immediately heard the same door slam shut behind him.

Right.

Well.

First things first; find out just where the hell he was.

* * *

Half an hour later, and he'd managed to pull the blindfold from his face, and he opened his eyes expectantly only to see-

Nothing.

John frowned, turning around on the spot and eventually spying a small crack of light coming from the floor in front of him. Silently creeping forwards, he fell to his knees awkwardly, shoulders protesting from the movement as his hands remained tied behind his back and tried to peer underneath the door.

He caught a glimpse of stacked boxes, before army-issued boots walked past, and he jumped back in fright, landing heavily on his right arm.

 _Fuck_.

Breathing in carefully through his nose, he tried to block out the shooting pain that seared up and down his wrist and tried to focus on what he knew.

He was being held captive in an old warehouse that hadn't been used for many years, and his door was currently being patrolled.

He was also being kept in the dark for some reason, both literally _and_ figuratively.

And it was cold.

 _Very_ cold.

John shivered.

His coat had been lost sometime in the struggle at the carpark, and all that remained were faded jeans, his old Nikes, and a threadbare jumper. He was tied up so he couldn't escape, and he had no weapon to fight with even if he could get out of his bonds.

He was a doctor. He knew what the first stages of hypothermia were, and right now, his shivering and alertness were dangerously accurate indicators.

Shuffling back against the cold stone wall, John pulled his knees up to his chest and prayed to whatever deity that was out there, that Sherlock had realised he was missing.

* * *

John counted the minutes until he got too cold to do so, and so when he finally did hear the slamming of doors and angry shouts of Scotland Yard, he could only estimate how long he'd been held captive for.

But that estimation was well over 12 hours.

He heard muttered curses as a key was shoved into the lock of the metal door, before suddenly it was flung open and his senses were filled with-

 _Sherlock_.

* * *

He felt a light tap on his cheek, "Hey! Hey, John, come on, look at me!"

Slowly blinking, he looked up at the wild-eyed genius, distantly noting that his shivering had stopped.

That was good, though, maybe now he could finally fall asleep.

"John!" Sherlock snapped, looking strangely worried even as undid the rope tying his hands together, "Keep your eyes open. Look at me, John, I need you to stay conscious".

Lestrade jogged into the room, panting, "We got them. All four. Is Watson hurt?"

"Dilated pupils" the genius replied, keeping his gaze on John's, "Stiff muscles, blue lips, loss of motor control... Get an ambulance".

"What-"

"Dammit, Lestrade, get an ambulance here now!"

John frowned, not liking how scared the usually unflappable detective was, and he carefully raised a hand to place on the younger man's shoulder to calm him down.

Or, at least, tried to.

He stared at his hand which remained motionless on his hand.

Sherlock followed his gaze, "... No coordination".

He gave a small nod.

"Dilated pupils, stiff muscles, blue lips, loss of motor control, and no coordination" He continued, "Focus, John, what does mean?!"

The doctor knew exactly what that meant, but found himself too tired to respond.

"No... No, John, look at me!"

He groaned, ignoring the man's request as his eyes fell closed once more.

"John! John look at me!"

It was fine.

He could look at him later.

* * *

He drifted in and out of semi-consciousness for what felt like forever, vaguely recalling injections and bandages and nurses and doctors and the only constant presence that remained was a familiar hand holding tightly onto his own.

"I'm sorry I didn't listen to you".

John frowned, recognising that voice.

"I should have listened. I should have- I should have done what you asked me to and gone grocery shopping. Gotten the bloody litre of milk. Then we wouldn't be in this mess..."

Sherlock?

"I'll listen from now on, I promise" the voice responded, a steely determination audible, "Whatever you want, I'll get it, I promise".

There was a huffed laugh by his side and warm fingers intertwined with his own, "I bought milk. For... For when you wake up, I suppose. Though according to the doctors, it'll probably be gone off by the time you come home. Hypothermia, dehydration, a sprained wrist... Guess that'll do that a person, huh?"

John tried vehemently to open his eyes but his body refused to cooperate.

"You need to wake up soon. Can you- Will you do that for me? I know that this was all my fault and I don't deserve you to do anything for me right now but... wake up? Please?"

 _I'm trying, Sherlock, dammit, I'm trying._

"The doctors keep trying to kick me out, claiming that visiting times apply even to the worlds greatest consulting detective... but I think I scared them enough into letting me say. Your own doctor is having an affair with the gardener, after all, and one of nurse's moonlights as a stripper, so I just threatened to expose them... They left me alone after that".

Only Sherlock.

He heard a heavy sigh and the scrapping of a chair as it was moved closer, "... I think I finally understand now. Why you always get so angry when I do something stupid. When I... When I do something dangerous... It never clicked why you were always so worried about me, until now... I never had to worry for your safety before. I made sure of that, what with Moriarty and Magnussen and the likes. I just... I never realised until you were taken, that you could be taken... So I do, John, I do understand, now. I understand why you always worry, because now _I'll_ always worry".

The doctor wanted to throw himself at the genius, but was only able to twitch a finger.

"I'll start listening to you, and I won't be as lazy, and I'll help out with the shopping, and I promise you, John, I swear on my life to you, that I won't ever let anyone ever hurt you again... but you need to wake up, now, okay? I can't change my ways without you pestering me".

He heard the man give a broken laugh that came out more like a sob.

"Just... Just wake up, yea? For me?"

And he did.

* * *

"Sherlock, honestly, I'm fine!" John huffed, unlocking the door to their flat while the genius hovered about him unsurely.

"The doctor's said you should be kept warmer than usual for another few days" He replied, "It's cold in here".

"Then light the fire!" He exclaimed exasperated, only for the detective to nod sombrely and do as told.

After John had woken up, a full four days after his rescue, he hadn't let on that he'd heard Sherlock's every word while unconscious, and the younger man hadn't mentioned it again.

But he'd done as promised, and now remained by his side like a lovesick puppy, fulfilling his every request at the drop of a hat.

* * *

Piling wood on top of the now blazing fire, Sherlock gently herded the ex-soldier towards his favourite chair, before turning on the kettle as he ran down the hall to his bedroom, returning with an armful of quilt and blankets.

"Sherlock-"

" _Doctor's orders!_ " He said firmly, and John rolled his eyes at him, "And since when have you _ever_ followed doctor's orders?!"

And then he looked at him, so _seriously_ , and replied with a quiet "since you got hurt because of me" that just tugged at John's heartstrings even as the genius continued to tuck the quilt in around him.

"Tea? Coffee? Hot chocolate?" Sherlock asked evenly, straightening up and returning to the kitchen, and the doctor stared at him, cautious.

"Tea, please".

"Of course. Are you hungry? You must be hungry".

"No, I'm not actually-"

"I'll make you toast".

John's mouth shut with an audible snap, _because_ _he wasn't even physically injured asides from one measly sprained wrist, dammit, he was just cold!_

And still perfectly capable of making himself toast if necessary.

* * *

This attentiveness continued well into the next week, and John found himself huffing exasperatedly numerous times a day due to the genius's antics.

Honestly, it'd almost be _cute_ if it wasn't so unnecessary!

He was fine, he was better, he was back at work with the hospital's approval, but Sherlock's flittering and hovering remained, awkward and sweet as he ensured John didn't even have to reach for the TV remote.

* * *

And then Lestrade burst in with a triple homicide on his hands and no suspects, and with a flurry of a blue scarf and a billowing coat, he was gone.

* * *

John couldn't help but smirk three days later as Sherlock finally returned from his stake out with the homeless community, passed out facedown on the couch, clothes torn and filthy and someone else's blood speckling his uncombed hair.

Maybe now that the game was back on, his motherhenning would stop.

Sighing fondly at the comatose detective, John made his way to the kitchen, wondering if there was enough milk left for lunch.

Stooping down, he pulled open the fridge and stilled.

There, sitting innocently on the middle shelf, was a full two-litre carton of milk.

And haphazardly scrawled on the side of it with a black sharpie, staring directly back out at John, was a smiley face and the simple message 'I listened'.


	17. Lestrade's Divorce

Thank you guys SO MUCH for all the prompts, and **Quick Question: I've got two Sherlock ideas (for FULL length fanfics) that I'm trying to decide between** , so:

 _ **One:** I continue on from my 'Wedding Crasher' one-shot, and deal with Sherlock and the fallout from being held captive in Serbia and how he settles back in 221B Baker Street, eventually opening up to John and the others about what happened while he was away._

 _ **Two:** Young police officer Lestrade saves a kid high on drugs from being beaten up and subsequently meets the kids brother- Mycroft, who's been left to raise drug addict teenage Sherlock by himself. Lestrade introduces them to an old friend of his, one John Watson, and Mystrade and Johnlock ensues!_

 **Which would you guys prefer?**

Requested by: Dianne

Rachel :)

* * *

 **Chapter 17: Lestrade's Divorce**

Mycroft sighed as he watched the detective leave the Court House for the second time that month.

He could see the despair on the man's face even with the blurry CCTV footage.

His divorce wasn't going well then.

Leaning back in his seat, Mycroft continued to stare at the screen as he thought.

He kept tabs on everyone Sherlock spoke to, of course, because it was that same over-protectiveness that had saved his younger brother from being kidnapped many times before. And one of those person-of-interests just happened to be Detective Inspector Lestrade.

So of course, following his divorce trial made sense.

It would affect Sherlock, after all, in... some way or another.

And it most certainly had nothing to do with his not-so-small crush on the handsome officer.

That would just be preposterous.

Still though, so far, the detective's cheating wife was winning.

And that wouldn't do at all.

* * *

Greg looked up and frowned as a strange man sat down next to him.

"I'm sorry, I think you got the wrong-"

"DI Lestrade?" He asked, holding out a hand, "I'm Mr. Jones, your new lawyer".

The detective blinked slowly, confused, "I... I didn't get a new lawyer, where's Mr. Davidson?"

"Suddenly came down with the flu" came the no-nonsense response, "The firm sent me instead".

Greg stared up at him cautiously, noting his slick hair and sharp suit, and wondered just how, exactly, a man of his stature worked for such a measly firm.

Something wasn't right here.

Hell, the leather briefcase he was holding probably cost more than the detective's car!

Before he could question him, however, as that was exactly what his inner police officer was screaming at him to do, the judge strode into the room, and Greg spent the next hour trying desperately not to scream back at his wife.

Or, well, his _ex_ -wife soon enough.

* * *

"Were you aware of your wife's apartment in East London?"

Greg jumped and spun around, "Christ, man, don't sneak up on me like that!"

Mr. Jones stared back at him, unimpressed.

All he seemed to do, actually, was look unimpressed.

That, and destroy his wife's case in court.

Once again, the detective wondered how such a brilliant lawyer ended up working _his_ divorce.

Mr. Jones, however, always seemed to avoid the question.

"DI Lestrade?"

"Sorry, what?"

"Your wife. She has an apartment. In East London" He repeated blandly, "Were you aware?"

"I... No, no, I was... I was not aware" Greg floundered, trying to remember her mentioning anything of the sort.

She hadn't.

Mr. Jones hummed thoughtfully, "Hiding assets, is she? We can use that".

And use it, he did.

* * *

Mycroft silently slid into the last bench in the court room, watching the case before him.

Hiring Lestrade a new lawyer had most certainly helped him.

Uncovering the wife's not-so-legal doings, had helped even more.

Already he could tell that the judge was favouring the detective over his wife, especially when Mr. Jones declared that the only reason Mrs. Lestrade had bought the apartment, was so she could have an affair with the PE teacher behind her husband's back.

Oh, how he loved single-minded people.

They were always so easy to destroy.

"We shall continue discussing these 'hidden assets' at the same time tomorrow" the Judge announced, "And, Mrs. Lestrade? I suggest you and your lawyer have a nice _long_ chat about what you intend to say".

Mycroft quickly stood up, leaving the court room just as silently as he had entered.

It was time, perhaps, to dig up some blackmail.

* * *

It was exactly three weeks later that the messy divorce finally came to an end.

And one DI Lestrade, had gotten _everything_.

" _Yes!_ " Greg exclaimed as soon as the judge had left the room, jumping up and dragging his lawyer into a ferocious hug.

Mr. Jones, of course, remained as stoic as ever, arms remaining by his side.

Mycroft sighed softly.

 _Oh, how he wished it were he that Lestrade was holding so close._

He reluctantly stood up, knowing that his work here was done, but couldn't help but pause at the sight of the detective's smile.

A full out, happy, white toothed _grin_ that spurred on the butterflies in Mycroft's stomach and caused a loud rushing in his ears.

He ignored Mrs. No-Longer-Lestrade storming past him on the way out, only realising his mistake as her ex husband turned to watch her leave.

The police officer's smile slowly fell.

 _Well_ , Mycroft faintly decided, _in for a penny, in for a pound._

* * *

He watched as everyone else in the room left, pausing to give Mr. Jones a small nod as he passed, before suddenly, it was just the detective and the officer that remained.

* * *

Greg slowly picked up his jacket and walked down the aisle towards the elder Holmes who was, strangely enough, rather _nervous_ looking as he hovered just inside the door.

He waited until he had reached the man to speak.

"You know... I always thought it was too good to be true. Suddenly gaining a fantastic lawyer, finding out about the apartment, revealing all her other dirty secrets" He started, "... So I guess I have you to thank for all this, huh?"

Mycroft swallowed thickly, unsure what to say.

So he settled for the classic, "I don't know what you're referring to, DI Lestrade".

The detective shook his head, smiling almost _fondly_ , "Call me Greg, please, I think you've done enough to deserve to be on a first name basis".

 _Of course he wouldn't be able to convince him otherwise._

"... Gregory, then".

Lestrade slowly nodded, before gesturing at the door, "Shall we?"

* * *

They walked towards the main doors in a companionable silence, and Greg found himself thanking the elder Holmes for it. He was a quiet man, after all, and he appreciated the time to get his head together.

Mycroft Holmes.

Mycroft Holmes had set all of this up.

 _Mycroft Holmes had helped him to get a divorce._

He couldn't help but snort at the thought, and while the younger man gave him a curious look, he did not ask for an answer.

* * *

Greg slowly came to a stop once they left the court house, and quickly put a hand on Mycroft's arm to halt him as well.

The man did as told, turning to face him fully, and Lestrade found himself flushing under the intensity of his gaze.

"I just want to..." He trailed off, before trying again, "I want to thank you. But... But just saying it won't cut it for me, so... I was wondering if... maybe... I could buy you a drink?"

Mycroft blinked at him, silent, and the detective found himself rambling before he could stop himself.

"Or- Or a tea? Or coffee, or something? I don't actually know what you like to do, so I'm just speculating here, but I have to repay you somehow and spending a night out doesn't sound like such a bad idea to me, but of course if it's not something you want to do then that's fine too, I just want to make sure you understand how much I truly appreciate this, especially since-"

"A drink would be more than acceptable, Gregory".

Lestrade abruptly stopped and looked up at him, only to find the man staring back with the tiniest of smiles.

A smile that would be unnoticeable to the untrained eye, but considering that his job basically revolved around reading people and judging their facial expressions to see if they're lying or not, it was pretty bloody obvious to him that the man was happy with the idea of drinks.

But then again, knowing Mycroft Holmes, him being the only one to notice the smile could have been the whole point.

"Drinks, then" Greg said, "Tonight? Shall we say around 7-ish?"

"I'll send a car" Mycroft replied, _because of bloody course he would_ , "See you then".

"See you then" He repeated faintly, suddenly realising that his divorce had only just been finalised and he was already going on a night out with someone else.

And a man at that.

A man that controlled the entire British government.

 _Oh well,_ Greg decided, admiring the man's tight trousers as he strode away, _it's not like he could be any worse than Sherlock._


	18. The Med-Student and the Criminologist

Some **fluffy Johnstrade AU** , as it's rare to find!

Requested by: Sigrid Martinez Mestre

Rachel :)

* * *

 **Chapter 18: The Med-Student and the Criminologist**

Lestrade sighed in relief as he finally found the secluded bookstore, and took a long drag of his cigarette before stubbing it out on the pavement beneath his feet.

He'd been trying to find a book for his criminology class for ages without luck, and had finally followed Sherlock's not-so-accurate directions to the second-hand place that he swore by.

The guy may be an ass, after all, and it was more than a little irritating that they were in the same class despite the 5-year age gap, but _dammit_ if Sherlock Holmes didn't know his books.

It was probably how he was a genius, after all.

Walking up to the old store, squished between two more larger buildings, he peered in through the dusty window, thankful to find that the place was still open despite the late hour.

* * *

Opening the door with a small chime, Greg cautiously stepped in, looking around at the dusty wooden shelves and embracing the old-book smell.

The book he was looking for had been out of print for the last few years, so maybe he _would_ find it here after all.

"Hello".

Lestrade jumped and spun around only to find a short smiling man standing behind the counter.

A decidedly _cute_ looking man at that.

He found himself putting on a charming smirk as he eyed up the sweater-wearing blonde, "Hello yourself".

The younger man blushed adorably and marked the page in the thick volume he was reading, "Can I help you find something?"

"The crime section?"

"Straight ahead, third row on the right" He replied, and Greg nodded once before obeying, smirk still in place.

Shaking his head, he forced himself to focus on the task.

The store would be closing soon enough and despite his urge to chat up the cute blonde, he really _did_ need that book for class.

Thankfully finding the books organised by authors last names, he began searching, holding his breath as he trailed his finger along La... Le... Li... Lu-

" _Fuck!_ "

He didn't realise he'd spoken out loud until he heard quick footsteps behind him, "Are you alright?"

He sighed heavily and turned to face the younger man.

"It isn't here".

He frowned, biting on his lower lip in an enticing way that made Greg want to bit it himself.

"Well, what are you looking for?"

"It's a criminology book I need for class, written by this Lockley guy" He explained, "But it hasn't been in print for a good few years, and I've been searching for it for _months_... A friend of mine said this place might have it".

The blonde's frown deepened, "Well... if it's not _here_... it might be in the back".

"In the... back?"

Then suddenly, he was grinning, and Lestrade felt his heart melt.

"Come on, I'll show you!"

* * *

"... Holy shit".

"I know".

"... Holy _shit_ ".

"I _know_ ".

'The back' as it turned out, was literally just that.

The back room of the bookstore.

And it was piled high with books.

Greg turned to face him, "How many are here?"

"Oh a good few hundred, I should say" came the calm response, "I'm slowly making my way through them... These are the donations we get, from libraries and colleges and such, so if it's a textbook that you're after-"

"It could be in here" He finished, and the blonde nodded, tugging his yellow sweater sleeves down over his hands almost shyly, "I can help you look, if you like?"

Lestrade found himself smiling at the faint blush that covered the younger's cheeks and couldn't help but agree.

It took them almost an hour to find it, and Lestrade was about to call it quits when suddenly-

" _I got it!_ "

And as he spun around, he was treated with the glimpse of a flash of pale skin as the blonde's shirt rod up when he reached for the book on top of a particularly tall pile.

A pile that was too tall for the short man to reach.

"Here, let me" He found himself saying, voice strangely husky as he stepped forwards, well into the younger's personal space as he reached up and caught the book from the top of the stack.

The sweater-guy flushed once more and avoided his gaze.

 _God, he was adorable._

"How much do I owe you?" He said instead, but the blonde shook his head, "Don't worry about it. I sincerely doubt that anyone else will be looking for it, and it's in a fairly beat-up condition".

"Won't you get in trouble for that?"

He smiled and shook his head, "It's my store. My dad left it to me when he died a few years back. It's fine, don't worry about it".

And Greg had smirked in thanks just to see the man blush again, before reluctantly leaving.

* * *

It was only later that night, as he poured over the book with a lit cigarette in his mouth, that he realised with a sudden pang that he'd never gotten the blonde's name.

* * *

John looked up as the bell above the door chimed, and felt his pulse quicken as he realised it was the man from last week.

The hard-looking yet soft-hearted leather-jacket wearing man.

He found himself smiling simply at the sight of the young man, and he got a flash of white teeth in response which only contributed to the fluttering of butterflies in his stomach.

"Looking for another out-of-print book?"

The man nodded, glancing around at the other occupants of the store with what looked like regret, before turning back to him.

"A criminal justice book, this time. My professors seem to get a kick out of giving me ancient books to read".

His smile widened as he bookmarked the page in his medical journal, stepping out from behind the counter and leading the way down the back of the store.

Stepping into the small room, he found himself automatically flushing at the reminder of how the older man had all-but pressed himself against him only days before.

"Who's the author?" He asked instead, clearing his throat.

"Smith".

He frowned and turned to face him, "Smith? Seriously? You know that's... like... probably _the_ most common last name in England, yea?"

He shrugged bashfully, ducking his head, and John couldn't help but think that the man's personality was the complete opposite of what his skinny jeans, army boots, and black leather jacket portrayed.

"Well then" He decided, tugging on the sleeves of his pastel blue sweater self-consciously, "Let's start looking".

* * *

"It's not fair!" John whined, flinging himself in his favourite armchair later that night.

Across from him, Sherlock sighed and reluctantly lowered his newspaper, "What's not fair? Or are you simply referring to life in general?"

"The guy from the bookstore!"

His flatmate smirked, "Oh. Yes. _That_ guy".

"... What if he's not gay?"

"You know, I may not be an expert on this whole 'dating' thing, but I believe it's common knowledge that you find out what the man's _name_ is before you start contemplating his sexuality".

"Oh you're no help!"

Sherlock quickly raised the newspaper once more to block his grin from the older man.

* * *

It would do no good revealing his role in the plan this early, after all.

* * *

"Oy! Sherlock!"

He reluctantly slowed to a stop and turned to face his fellow classmate, "Yes, Graham?"

The man didn't even bother to correct him.

"This... This bookstore of yours" He began nervously, "The one you recommended to me?"

"What about it?"

"... What do you know about the guy running it?"

"What do you mean?"

Lestrade ran a hand through his hair, agitated, "Well what's his deal?!"

Sherlock frowned, purposefully acting dumb, "He deals in _books_ , Gavin, that's why he runs a bookstore".

"Oh just- You know what? Never mind!" He decided, "Forget I ever asked!"

He turned on his heal, pulling out a cigarette as he did so.

"Those things will kill you, you know".

"Fuck off".

"... If you gave one to me, however, I might become... _encouraged_... to give some advice regarding this bookstore guy of yours".

Greg slowly came to a stop, before reluctantly turning and walking back to the smug bastard, practically tossing the cigarette at him, fishing out the lighter from his jacket.

* * *

Lighting up, he took a much-needed drag and stared in surprise as Sherlock did the same with ease, closing his eyes in bliss.

He wasn't a stranger to smoking then.

That was... rather surprising.

But then again, Lestrade realised, he didn't actually know all that much about the man he called a friend.

He knew he lived off campus, flat shared with some other bloke going to med school, and that he was a certified genius, still only a teenager if the rumours were anything to go by.

"Well?" He demanded, "Your advice?"

Sherlock took a long draw from his cigarette before answering.

"Ask him out".

"Oh you- I lost a cigarette for that?!" He exclaimed, before suddenly piercing blue eyes were pinning him in place, "You'll get nowhere by just pining over him. Go back to the bookstore tonight. Ask him out. Friday is more preferable, as the store closes early and you have no classes. Bring him to that café I always drag you to".

"And how do you know he likes coffee?"

"He doesn't. He likes tea. And it's because I _observe_ , you idiot!" He snapped, "Now go! And for the love of god, Geoff, find out the man's name!"

* * *

Steeling himself just outside the bookstore, Lestrade swore for the millionth time that hour of how unfair it was that the insufferable bastard was right.

Because Sherlock always was, after all.

So here he was, bracing himself for rejection, for disgust, for _"I'm not gay!"_ from the man he could very well be smitten with.

Well.

It'd do good to stand out here all day.

Opening the door, glad to find the store empty, he put on a determined face and marched right over to the counter, jutting out his hand, "I'm Greg. Greg Lestrade".

The startled blonde, wearing pale pink today, stared at him for a moment before slowly, ever-so-slowly smiling and shaking it, "John Watson".

John.

Simple.

He liked it.

Hoping that his nerves weren't too obvious, he braced himself for rejection and stated, "John... Would you like to get tea with me sometime?"

And to his surprise, the blonde grinned, "I would love to, Greg".

He shivered.

Oh yes, he could get used to hearing his name being said from _those_ lips alright.

"Does Friday suit?"

"Perfect" the blonde replied, "I close up early, around twelve... How about half past?"

"Half twelve it is then" Lestrade finished, "I'll pick you up here".

"See you then".

And as he left the store, he couldn't help but grin widely as the weight of the world lifted off his shoulders.

* * *

He never thought he'd see the day when he'd actually _thank_ Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

John couldn't keep the smile off of his face as they walked into the secluded coffee shop.

It so happened that it was his favourite, and based on Greg's nervous glances every so often, it hadn't a clue.

It was quiet and small with an old stove in one corner and two beat-up couches in the other, while the main area was littered with mix-matched chairs and three-legged tables, and he honestly couldn't think of a better place to go for a first date.

"What can I get you?"

He turned to Greg as he spoke and couldn't help but laugh at the out-of-place biker standing amongst soft croissants and faded pink wallpaper.

"Just a black tea, please" He replied warmly, "I'll grab us a seat".

He automatically headed over towards the couches, the same place where he and Sherlock always sat when they visited the place, and within minutes, Greg was sitting down across from him, placing two steaming cups on the low table between them.

"So" John began, somewhat awkwardly, "You're studying criminology, yea?"

The older man nodded, "Yea. I plan on joining the Yard when I graduate".

He frowned, "The Yard? As in... Scotland Yard? You want to be a detective?"

"I know, it's... a bit random, but... well... I never grew of the 'cops and robbers' stage from when I was a kid" He laughed, and John felt his heart melt at the sight of crinkled eyes and a genuine grin.

"What are you doing? Asides from the bookstore, of course?"

"How do you know I'm doing something else?" He teased, taking a sip from his tea, and the older man smirked, "Because you're smart. Intelligence usually comes with ambition".

He couldn't help it, he blushed, and saw Greg's smile widen in turn.

Then suddenly, the older man was looking past him at someone else who had just come in, and quickly stood up and waved a hand, "Sherlock! Come here a minute!"

* * *

 _Sherlock?!_

* * *

John frowned and turned just in time to see the wide smirk that spread over the genius's face as he walked over.

"Giles, John, it's about bloody time".

Silence.

Then suddenly, both men turn back to each other, " _You know him?!_ "

Sherlock carefully takes a sip of his coffee, watching the events unfold before him.

"You go first" John said, and Greg frowned, "Yea, yea, I know him. He's in most of my classes. He's the friend who recommended your bookstore to me. How do _you_ know him?"

"He's my flatmate. The one who brought me to this café first day" He replied, "... Hang on-"

They both turned back to Sherlock and he gave them a rare grin, "Enjoy your date. Also, John, I won't be home this weekend, Mycroft needs my help again as usual, so... you know... make use of it".

The med student flushed scarlet and glared furiously at him, while Lestrade coughed awkwardly and ducked his head.

Sherlock, however, simply grinned wider and spun on his heal to leave, "It's about time that you two get together. Don't disappoint me. See you on Monday!"


	19. Gunshot

Requested by: **Dianna** and **TeaWithANiffler**

Rachel :)

* * *

 **Chapter 19: Gunshot**

It had all started with Sherlock getting himself kidnapped.

Again.

It took only three hours for John to notice, as the detective had made planned for them to go to dinner that same night, and given that there were no active cases on at the moment, he'd had no reason to miss it.

Calling Lestrade and then Mycroft, all three men had converged at Baker Street to pull out CCTV footage and track the kidnappers.

That had only taken half an hour, as the elder Holmes was rather adapt at hacking into various cameras around London, and Greg had dealt with the perpetrators before and had made a list of their usual haunts.

Together, both men poured over the six different place names, debating and discussing which was the more likely, working rather _beautifully_ together if Mycroft did say so himself.

And so, an entire painful night later, they finally got the go ahead and geared up, no one questioning the detective's brother or blogger as they also strapped on bullet proof vests and got into the van.

Though, of course, that could have partly done with the bloody murder that was written across bother their faces if they found Sherlock with even just one hair out of place.

Breaking into the compound was painfully easy, Lestrade leading the assault and John and Mycroft trailing after at the back of the group.

* * *

Three bad guys and a gunfight later, and they found him.

* * *

Shooting the padlock on the cell door, Greg kicked it open, and the trio wasted no time in rushing in and running towards the genius who had been held captive for all of 18 hours.

Sherlock slowly blinked up at them, and John swore when he saw the dilated pupils and vacant expression, "He's been drugged".

"With what?" Mycroft asked quickly, but the doctor shook his head, "Not an aesthetic, but there's a fresh track mark on his arm, so probably an opioid. And he's been hit a few times as well".

Standing up, he quickly rang for an ambulance, stepping back to allow the man's brother to take his place, while Lestrade stood at the door, keeping guard.

Mycroft's eyes darkened when he saw the black eye and split lip, and the faint bruises littering the detective's jaw and neck. Glancing down even further, revealed bloody wrists from too-tight handcuffs, and various scratches and cuts lining both arms.

And there were distinctive boot prints on his once-white shirt, revealing the possibility of internal bleeding and cracked ribs.

"Ambulance is on it's way" John announced, turning back around to face him, and he nodded, carefully untying the rope that kept his brother tied to the wall.

A burst of gunfire from outside the cell, had all three men flinching away from the door, just as a bloody yet grinning stranger ran in.

* * *

When he saw Mycroft hovering protectively over his victim, however, he scowled and raised his gun, pulling the trigger as he aimed for the younger man's head.

* * *

And before anyone could even blink, Lestrade had yelled and flung himself forwards, just as there was a loud-

* * *

*BANG*

* * *

Mycroft shook his head, trying to dispense the ringing in his ears, and from across from him, he saw John do the same, only instead of a phone in the younger man's hand... there was a handgun.

Following the soldier's line of sight, he saw the kidnapper collapsed against the wall in front of him, a single neat bullet hole in the middle of his forehead.

Which meant that Gregory was-

Gregory was lying on the floor below him, unmoving.

Mycroft felt his heart freeze.

* * *

Crouching down next to him, he quickly rolled the officer onto his back, stomach rolling sickeningly when he saw blood staining the man's shirt.

"Lestrade... Detective... Lestrade!" He lightly tapped the older man's face, and couldn't help but sigh in relief when two daze blue eyes slowly flickered open.

"... Holmes?"

He blinked, confused, before suddenly trying to sit up, and Mycroft quickly pushed him back down, "No, don't get up, you've been shot... Watson!"

John stared at them for a moment, seeming to be in shock, and the elder Holmes growled, "John Watson you are the _only one here_ qualified to _help_ this man, so snap out of it _now!_ "

In the distance, he heard sirens.

The doctor blinked, slowly lowering his weapon, before clearing his throat and rushing over, "Sorry, I... I haven't shot someone, haven't _killed_ someone since-"

"Just help him!" Mycroft snapped, gesturing at the pale detective on the ground.

* * *

And speaking of detectives...

* * *

"... My?"

He quickly spun around only to find a thankfully less-fuzzy-looking Sherlock staring back at him, bewildered.

Making sure that John was taking care of Lestrade, he kneeled down next to the genius, "Yes, brother mine, I'm here".

"... Why's Geoff on the floor?"

"He's injured. Much like you are" He replied, conflicted over who to worry about the most, "Don't worry, though, we'll get you both to a hospital soon".

* * *

Mycroft quickly decided that he would stay with Sherlock rather than with Gregory, as he knew, logically, that his brother would always be number one on his list.

No matter what his illogical feelings were towards the older man.

"I said I'm fine, Mycroft!"

He sighed and rolled his eyes, "You're in a hospital bed, Sherlock. You are far from _fine_ ".

"So I've got a few cuts and bruises, who cares?" He shot back, angrily tugging at the bandages surrounding his arms and chest, "John'll sign me out tonight".

"I will do no such thing" Watson shot back, "You're staying here for at least another three days, mister!"

"Oh my god, John, shut up! You're not helping! Mycroft, leave".

"No".

"You know you want to".

He sighed, "And while that may be, Sherlock, we all have to do things we don't like every once and a while".

His brother glared, then folded his arms across his chest, "You'd rather be with Graham. So go!"

"I would not rather be with-"

"Oh for- You've only been complaining about your massive crush on him to me for the last five years!"

Now that was a low blow.

Mycroft subtly straightened, and narrowed his eyes at the younger Holmes, "Don't even _think_ about-"

"You're an ass" Sherlock interrupted, "And a cowardly ass at that. Go to Lestrade. Tell him you love him. Move in together. And more importantly, stop pretending you want to be here with me when we all know you'd prefer to be with the man who took a bullet for you!"

* * *

And that was the problem, wasn't it?

Gregory had taken a bullet for him.

 _And how the fuck was he meant to repay him for that?!_

* * *

Unfortunately, as usual, Sherlock was right, and it was less than 15 minutes later that Mycroft found himself standing outside the officer's room.

The bullet had implanted itself in his shoulder, he'd been told, but thankfully no surgery was needed as no real damage had been done.

A flesh wound, the doctor had called it.

But any wound at all was too much for Mycroft to bear.

* * *

Knocking lightly, he stepped into the room, only to find Lestrade sitting up in bed and taking to one of his officers.

The woman glanced over at him, before giving her boss a knowing look, "I'll leave you to it, then".

"Thanks, Sally".

She gave him a warning look as she past, and Mycroft frowned, confused, before suddenly realising that it was most likely because she'd gotten her boss shot.

 _Was Gregory going to be just as angry?_

Once she left, he turned back to the man in the bed, wincing when he saw his left arm heavily bandaged and resting in a sling.

Lestrade smirked, "Don't worry, it's not as bad a it looks. And I'm so doped up on painkillers, I can't feel anything anyway".

Mycroft swallowed thickly and slowly walked over, taking the seat next to the older man's bed, "I... I'm sor-"

"Don't".

He blinked, "... Excuse me?"

"Don't" Lestrade said simply, "Don't say that you're sorry, don't apologise".

"... You got shot because of me".

"I got shot because of my job" He replied, smiling softly, "I'm a police officer, Mr. Holmes. Getting shot is kind of an occupational hazard".

"That man was aiming at me-"

"And if you hadn't been there, or if John hadn't been there, then I would have gotten shot anyway. I may have taken a bullet that was meant for you, Mycroft, but it was in no way your fault".

 _God, could this man be any more perfect._

"Move in with me".

 _Fuck_.

Lestrade frowned, "I... What?"

 _Well he couldn't exactly back out now._

"Move in with me".

 _Fuck you Sherlock._

"I don't... What do you mean, move in with you?"

"You're injured" He replied, "And left-handed. And it was your left shoulder that got shot. You're on leave until further notice, and you'll need moving around so you can't stay by yourself in your flat. I've a penthouse in London, I'll be staying there anyway to keep tabs on Sherlock until he's healed, and obviously you'll wish to stay in London so-"

"Yes".

Mycroft stilled, "... What?"

"Yes" Gregory replied, before suddenly flushing, "I... I mean it makes sense... I can't stay by myself right now, and I do want to stay in the city so I... yes?"

They stared at each other in silent for an entire minute, before the elder Holmes nodded, "Right. Yes. Of course, I'll... I'll make the necessary requirements... When are you free to leave?"

"The doctor's want me to stay until this evening, just to make sure that I rest and that there's no complications or the likes, but... around 6-ish?"

"6 it is then" He decided, standing up, "I'll... I'll see you then".

* * *

Mycroft couldn't help but smirk as he stepped back into Sherlock's hospital room, and immediately the younger man stopped his conversation with John and stared at him suspiciously.

"... What did you do?"

"I don't know what you're referring to, brother mine".

"Yes you bloody well do!" He snapped, before suddenly, his eyes widened, "... You've been to see Lestrade".

"And if I have?"

"Did you confess you're undying love for him?" Sherlock asked innocently, and next to him, John coughed loudly and shot him a dark look.

The younger Holmes, however, ignored him, and continued to look expectantly at his brother, "Well? Are you engaged yet?"

" _Sherlock!_ "

"It's alright, Watson" Mycroft replied, just as easily, "I suppose I do have some news".

This time, the doctor did nothing to prevent the genius's exclamation.

Taking the seat at the foot of the bed, he waited until Sherlock looked like he was two seconds from flinging himself at him, before answering.

"Gregory and I have moved in together".

"WHAT?!"

He smirked, "Yes. Into my penthouse in London... I don't know why you're so shocked looking, brother mine, it was you who advised it, after all".

Sherlock stared at him, eyes wide and mouth open, "But- But- But how? How?!"

"Well as you said, it was about time I did something".

"So you actually _did_ confess your undying love?"

Mycroft smiled and remained silent, letting his brother suffer from the lack of answers.

* * *

It would do no good telling him the truth after all, or he'd never here the end of his 'cowardice'.

And besides.

Now that Gregory was, in fact, staying with him, it gave him amble opportunity to confess his not-so-little crush, now, didn't it?


	20. Uncle Mycroft

**_Requested by: Sherlock Harry Winchester_**

Rachel :)

* * *

 **Chapter 20: Uncle Mycroft**

John sighed as Rosie giggled at her phone for the millionth time that hour, lost in a world of her own.

Well.

Of her own and whoever the hell she was texting, that is.

This had unfortunately become a somewhat normal occurrence, and even now, in the middle of their traditional Friday night movie marathon, when she shouldn't even have her phone to begin with, she was texting.

Those little clicks that the phone's keyboard made were really beginning to irritate him.

"Rosie, please, come on, put it away".

She glanced up at him and frowned.

"You know the rules. We get one night a week to ourselves. No phones, no emergencies, and _no cases_ " He finished, shooting Sherlock a dark look at the detective tried to subtly make out notes in the darkness of the room.

He huffed, exasperated, and rolled his eyes as he put the pen and notebook away, and John distantly wondered just _who_ was meant to be the teenager in the room.

His daughter also groaned, _no guessing as to who she learned that from_ , but did as told, sliding the mobile under her knee as she curled up in the armchair.

Ten seconds later, there was a loud beep.

All eyes turned back to Rosie.

She stared directly back at them, face impassive.

John sat up and folded his arms across his chest.

She shifted uncomfortably.

Sherlock raised a solitary eyebrow at her.

She caved.

Lunging for her phone, she unlocked it as she stood up and suddenly raced down to her room.

"Sorry dad, love you, see you tomorrow morning!"

* * *

He heard her bedroom door slam, and let out a heavy breath.

Turning to Sherlock, he narrowed his eyes at him.

"You know who she's texting, don't you?"

"Most definitely".

"And?"

"And she swore me to secrecy the second I deduced it".

John glared at him, "I'm her _father!_ "

Sherlock scowled right back, "And I _pinkie-promised!_ "

It wasn't until two and a half weeks later that he finally found out just who had captured his daughter's attention so thoroughly.

"Dad? Sherlock?"

He glanced up from his plate just as Sherlock answered, "Yes, honey bee?"

Her nose wrinkled at the old nickname, but John knew full well that the detective would never relent.

"Can I..." She coughed, clearing her throat, "Can I... ask you something?"

John was instantly on dad-alert mode and sat up straighter, putting down his fork and knife.

"Of course you can. What is it?"

She avoided his gaze, "I... I want you two to... to meet someone".

"... Someone?" He asked, confused, "I... I don't understand, why would you want us to-"

Next to him, Sherlock scoffed and rolled his eyes, "Oh please, John, she wants us to meet her boyfriend, it obvious. How does tomorrow night sound? He could stay for dinner?"

She nodded enthusiastically, grinning, "Thanks 'Lock, thanks dad, I'll tell him right away".

* * *

It took John a full five minutes after she had bounded from the table to finally register what had just been said.

"... Her boyfriend?"

Sherlock nodded, "Yes. He's coming over for dinner tomorrow, weren't you listening?"

"... Her friend that's a boy?"

"No. Her boyfriend. Like Mary was your girlfriend. We're going to meet him".

Boyfriend.

Rosie had a boyfriend.

His 14-year-old daughter had a boyfriend.

Staring down at his plate, he couldn't help but push it away, suddenly finding himself not very hungry.

* * *

"Dad, this is Kyle".

John held out his hand after getting a sharp dig in the ribs from his daughter, wondering just how the hell Sherlock managed to get out of the meet-and-greet phase of the evening.

"It's nice to meet you, sir. Rosie's told me a lot about you".

He narrowed his eyes at the short blond boy, who flushed and fidgeted under his glare.

Another elbow to the ribs finally made him avert his gaze.

"Yes... Kyle... It's good to finally meet you too" He reluctantly said, "Dinner's nearly ready, so why don't you two... stay in the sitting room".

" _Dad!_ "

"My roof, my rules" He shot back, "It's either that, or set the table. You choose".

She scoffed and dragged the stuttering boyfriend towards the sitting room, muttering a harsh " _unbelievable_ " under her breath as she passed.

* * *

Half an hour later, the three of them sat at the table, silent and awkward.

A well-placed kick under the table had John finally relenting and breaking the uncomfortable atmosphere.

"So... Kyle... how do you get on in school?"

Rosie choked on her drink.

The boyfriend gave a small smile, "Well, I'm... I'm doing five subjects for my A-levels. I'm hoping to get a scholarship to Oxford in two years time, to study law".

John frowned.

Even he had to admit that was somewhat impressive.

"Any plans after that?"

Rosie glared at him furiously.

"If I do well, then hopefully I'll get an Internship-"

"What if you don't do well?"

"Then... Then I'll... ah... I guess I'd-"

"He _will_ do well" Rosie interrupted, sickly sweet "Because, _dad_ , Kyle is a straight-A student. In _all_ of his classes".

He got the message loud and clear, and reluctantly returned to moodily poking and prodding at his dinner.

* * *

"Sherlock!"

John looked up at the happy exclamation, just in time to see his daughter bound into the detective's arms.

He swore it was just to spite him.

"I didn't think you'd be home in time!" Rosie continued, "Come on, I want you to meet Kyle!"

The blond quickly stood up, wiping sweaty palms on his jeans, and John rolled his eyes at the motion.

He may have been nice and a straight-A student and kind and he may have smiled and stuttered completely innocently and he may even be a fantastic lawyer someday-

 _But no one got to date his daughter._

"I've heard a lot about you" Sherlock said pleasantly, holding out his hand, because _of bloody course_ he had, Rosie confided _everything_ with him.

The second the boyfriend stepped out into the light, however, the genius stiffened, unnoticeable to the two teenagers but plain as day to his best friend.

"The feelings mutual, sir" Kyle replied, happy to have an excuse to leave John's intimidating presence, "Unfortunately, though, I'm afraid it's getting quite late, and I have go or my mum will start worrying. It was lovely meeting you both!"

Rosie pouted, but announced she'd walk him to the door.

* * *

The second the pair were out of ear shot, John turned to him, "What is it?"

"You won't like it".

"Tell me anyway".

"I have to wait".

"Until what?"

"Until he's safely out of the building".

"Why?!"

"Because I don't think that Rosie would appreciate you murdering her boyfriend very much".

John stood up, walked to the window, and watched as Kyle disappeared down the street.

"Fine. He's gone. What's wrong?"

Sherlock let out a heavy breath and collapsed in his usual armchair.

"He's cheating on her".

"... _What?!_ "

"He had a red hair, on his shoulder. Considering that he's blond, pure blond, in highly unlikely that either of his parents are ginger, since it's an incomplete dominant gene and blond is recessive. He also had perfume on his clothes, not Rosie's, but too modern to be his mother's. Given his fake smile and _cute_ attitude, he's trying to win us over to keep Rosie happy, but not because he actually wants to. Therefore, it's not serious for him. He's 16-years-old, a chancer, he doesn't care if this relationship works out or not. Hence the cheating".

"... I'm going to kill him".

"You don't know where he lives".

"I'll ask Rosie".

"And tell her the truth as to why you want it?"

John immediately relented.

He hadn't hid his disapproval all evening, after all, and even if he flat out told her what _Kyle_ was up to behind her back, she'd probably say he was just lying so he could get rid of him.

But he couldn't not tell her, she was his daughter, his honey bee, and he'd gladly kill anyone who tried to harm her.

But if he _did_ tell her... then she wouldn't believe him.

"Well fuck".

"Eloquent as always, Watson".

* * *

It was only four days later, two days before John resolved to say something if nothing happened, that Rosie came home in tears.

Immediately dropping his book at the sight of glistening cheeks, John rushed over, "Hey, Rose, what's wrong? What happened? Are you alright?"

"Of course I'm not _alright_!" She yelled, flinging her school bag to the side and tugging harshly at her tie, "I hate him! _I hate him!_ "

"You hate who, honey? What's wrong?"

"Oh as if you don't already know!" She spat, shoving back him, "I bet you and Sherlock realised the _second_ you met him. But no, instead I get to find out _by_ _walking in on him_ _kissing Jessica behind the_ _bikeshed!_ "

Fucking _Kyle._

"Rosie, please, will you just listen to me-"

" _NO!_ " She screamed, storming down the hall, " _JUST LEAVE ME_ _ALONE!_ "

And with a slam of her door, she was gone.

John stood there in shock, slowly blinking, until Sherlock cautiously peered out from his own room, "... I take it she's finally found out, then".

He ran a tired hand over his face, "... God, I wish I banned her from dating until she turns 21".

"And have her sneak out to do it behind your back?" came the swift response, "Not likely".

"Can you..." He gestured futilely at the shut bedroom door, "It's just... she always listens to you"

"Of course" Sherlock replied quietly, "I'm taking no responsibility if we end up breaking things during the imminent argument, though".

"Oh, just knock already, would you!"

* * *

The next day, after much coaxing and bribing and I-promise-you's, Rosie returned to school with puffy eyes and a rumbled uniform.

"Did she tell you what happened?" John asked, watching her get on the bus from the sitting room window.

Sherlock continued playing his violin, "She did".

"And?"

The bow screeched across the strings.

"She saw him with the redhead".

John sighed and collapsed down in his favourite argument, "... Do you think she'll be alright?"

"Oh, you can count on it" He replied, a rather worrying smirk forming on his mischievous expression, "And now, if you'll excuse me, I've got a phone call to make".

* * *

"SHERLOCK!"

John winced as Rosie burst in.

"Where is he?!"

He meekly pointed towards the sitting room, cursing his luck for his daughter getting her mother's temper.

"Sherlock! What the hell?!"

On the other hand though, this might end up being rather entertaining to watch...

Silently slipping into the room, John was met with the sight of his daughter standing, hands on hips, glaring at the sitting down detective.

"Well?!" She demanded, but he merely blinked up at her, "I'm afraid I don't know to what you're referring to, honey bee".

"Liar!" She snapped, " _You broke his nose Sherlock!_ "

Wait, what?!

"I did no such thing" He replied evenly, and she threw her hands in the air, exasperated, "Of course you bloody well don't, because it's not like you'd ever admit to it, now, is it?"

"Admit to what?"

She narrowed her eyes at him for a minute, before finally, _finally_ , giving him a small smile, "... Thank you".

* * *

Waiting until she had left the room, John turned back to his flatmate, "... Is she insinuating that you punched Kyle in the face?"

"Yes".

"... Did you?"

"Of course not" He replied calmly, reflipping open his newspaper, "I got her Uncle Mycroft to do it".


End file.
